The Battle of the Underground
by Anna Fortuna
Summary: Newly revised. Harry's not the only one with an unusual scar. Thanks for reading; please review.
1. The Meeting of the Council

**Peripheral characters were created by me, but all recognizable names and ideas belong to J.K. Rowling. A few historical figures also appear; they obviously belong to themselves. **

_**Chapter One: **The Meeting of the Council_

_London, February 1945 _

The city was as black as a war widow's mourning dress. No twinkling lights blazed from any window, public or private. Even the stars seemed to have gotten the message, and had taken refuge behind low clouds. The streets were silent and for the most part empty, but fear and tension lingered in the air like the residual smoke from bombed-out buildings. 

One monument, which bore silent witness to almost a thousand years of English history, lay as dark as the rest. Soldiers patrolled its grounds watchfully. But no sentry, however diligent, saw what happened in a dark inner chamber of one of the many buildings comprising the Tower of London. Had anyone on guard duty observed the six cloaked figures suddenly appear in one of the tower rooms, materializing out of thin air, he might have thought the stresses of war had finally driven him over the edge. 

Inside the room, one of the wizards drew a wand from his cloak and lit a strange blaze in the enormous fireplace at one end of the room. It burned smokelessly with a violet light, throwing tall shadows around the high stone walls. The six men removed their cloaks and seated themselves around a table in the center. 

"What's all this about, Fitzherbert?" said an irritable voice. Its owner was a short, stout man dressed in dark red robes. "And why on earth did you have us meet in this--this--" he sputtered, looking outraged around him--"_Muggle_ stronghold? Especially now, when things are so dangerous?" 

Godfrey Fitzherbert, the British Minister of Magic, looked reprovingly at the man who had spoken, then extended his glance to the rest of the circle. "You will find out very shortly, Edward," he replied. "First, I wish to thank you all for apparating here from the safety of your homes during this time. The Ministry appreciates the risk you took to do so. You will see why we needed to meet here, but before I get to that, allow me to remind you all where the situation now stands." 

He arose from his chair and leaned forward with his hands resting on the table. "We are, of course, the first War Council to convene since the end of the Goblin Rebellions. There was some resistance at the Ministry to the idea of creating the Council; this is, after all, a war between Muggles, not wizards. The controversy ended when the bombing raids began. We may be able to put anti-explosion and fireproof charms on our homes, but we are not immune to the shortages the war has brought about, nor, more importantly, to the suffering of the innocent around us." Fitzherbert looked around the table, at each face in turn, as he spoke. 

"The continent has faced even more devastation than we have. Eastern Europe invaded, Austria annexed, most of Europe now occupied. Hitler's armies have laid waste any place which dared resist their advances. For the last six years, we have done what we could--without revealing our own existence, of course--to help the Allied Forces, and for this, His Majesty and the Prime Minister are most grateful. We were able to supply specially-trained falcons to MI5 to capture pigeons that the Nazis sent in to courier information to their spies here. And I hardly need mention that the concealment charms which our special forces put around the D-Day preparations were most successful." 

"Oh, _were_ they?," interrupted a thin, gray-haired wizard to his left. "If that were the case, my son Phillip might not be dead now." 

Fitzherbert inclined his head. "Forgive me, Rodney. You are right. The Germans knew an attack was coming, of course; they just weren't sure where it would be. There was a leak somewhere--" his eyes narrowed as he glanced around the table--"somehow Hitler, _claiming_ a premonition, found out that it would be at Calais. We were able to counteract that somewhat by sending in a spy who acted at enormous personal risk to cast a Confundus charm as close to German headquarters as he could get. It helped, but there were still many losses. Too many. I'm sorry, Rodney." 

He paused, then continued in a softer voice. "And if you will pardon me for speaking about something so personally painful to you, I would like to say that Phillip had the right idea. Not many wizards have enlisted in the Muggle armies; I wish more had done so. This is not just about political power struggles between non-magical peoples, gentlemen. This war is about the struggle between the forces of good and evil." 

Edward Bragg now snorted. "Oh come now, Godfrey," he said. "It's bad, yes indeed--but don't you think you're being a bit histrionic now?" He looked around the table with a smile, expecting to see the same on other faces. To his surprise, they were all impassive and stony, eyes fixed on the Minister. His own smile retreated quickly. 

"No, I don't," said Fitzherbert slowly. "I don't think I'm being at all histrionic, Edward. I'm about to ask Rafael Aquitaine, our liaison with the Continental Council, to share something with you, and I tell you this now--you won't believe it when you hear it. It is evil of the greatest magnitude, evil so appalling and so sinister that the mind turns away from it in disbelief. But believe it you must. I assure you that it is true." He sat down and turned to the wizard at his right. "Rafael?" 

A wizard robed in dark blue stood up. Though his English was flawless and unaccented, his olive complexion and black eyes showed his Gallic heritage. 

"Thank you, Minister. My friends and fellow Council members," he began somberly. "We have several things to share with you tonight that are of huge significance. We will start with this: Through the network of spies established on the continent, we have learned of the existence of horrifying places that the Nazis have established. They are called concentration camps. People are being sent there in droves. Most are Jews--Hitler's great scapegoat for Germany's economic woes--but Gypsies, homosexuals, and Poles are also sent there, as is any German citizen who dares to speak up against the Third Reich. 

"Most of these people are murdered upon arrival at the camps. The ones who are not murdered are enslaved, starved, and subjected to unimaginable abuses. Unspeakable 'medical experiments.' The victims arrive by the thousands every day." He stared around the table, his dark eyes intense as he emphasized: "_Thousands_. _Every day_. There are half a dozen of these camps that we've pinpointed; we strongly suspect there may be more." 

"And what proof have you of this?" An upper-crust accent from the end of the table. "Begging your pardon, Aquitaine, but really, I have trouble believing that the Nazis would have the resources necessary for these vast operations while they're knee-deep in combat, and losing badly at the moment." 

"I know it seems unbelievable, Malfoy," replied Aquitaine quietly. "I can only surmise that Hitler's program of ethnic cleansing has gone from legalized murder to outright insanity. As for proof...we have indications which you will see later on in the meeting. And I've personally interviewed escapees from a few of these camps." He paused, a haunted look darkening his handsome face. "I am more than convinced of their sincerity." 

"Anything you can share with us, Rafael?" asked Rodney Pickett. "Photographs, for instance? Did you administer Veritaserum to ascertain the truthfulness of their testimony?" 

Aquitaine sighed. "Rodney, believe me--if you saw these men, you would understand why I was reluctant to subject them to anything more rigorous than a simple interview. They were practically dead when they were brought to me...walking skeletons held together by skin and desperation. In their condition, Veritaserum might well have killed them; photographing them, when they've spent months hiding from Nazi searchlights, seemed too cruel." 

"But what is it we're supposed to do?" queried Bragg. "I suppose we could send undercover forces to try and liberate these places, but given how well the Nazis must be guarding them, it seems terribly risky, and highly prone to failure." 

Aquitaine raised one finely-shaped eyebrow. "You haven't even heard the rest of it, Edward. Allow me to continue." Bragg inclined his head. 

"Up until now," continued Aquitaine, "we've been relatively sheltered from the effects of the war. But everything the Muggles are subjected to now is about to be visited upon us...only worse. Far, far worse." 

"What do you mean, Rafael?" inquired Pickett anxiously. 

"I mean, Rodney," said Aquitaine, "that a wizard has penetrated the inner circles of the Nazi leaders, and is using this program of extermination to his own ends. His minions, placed among the Gestapo, are rounding up all Muggle-born or half-Muggle witches and wizards on the continent, and sending them to these camps, under the convenient accusation of being political dissidents. And who would dare to speak up in their defense? No one who wishes to stay alive. So now they too are being slaughtered in these camps, because this madman wants to rid the entire wizarding world of what he considers non-pure blood." 

"Is that really such a bad thing?" drawled Malfoy. 

As a man, the others at the table turned to look at him. He smirked at the aghast expressions on their faces. "Oh, I know it comes as no surprise to anyone here that I don't like them. I simply don't trust them. They could revert to their Muggle roots and betray us at any time. And to have it happen now, when the Muggles are under siege? Think of what irreparable harm exposure of our world could do right now. We'd be an instant scapegoat--much as the Jews are for the Germans--and we'd back to the stakes and gallows of the Dark Ages." 

"Hadrian Malfoy," said Godfrey Fitzherbert slowly, in a voice that shook with rage, "that is the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard. _Yes_, we all know how you feel about allowing any children other than purebloods to attend Hogwarts. As an acting member of the Board of Governors of the school, you've made your position more than clear on a number of occasions. But I wouldn't have believed that even _you_ could condone the wholesale slaughter of Muggle-born magical people!" 

Malfoy shrugged. "What you see as prejudice, Godfrey, I see as merely a matter of survival. Good riddance to bad rubbish, I'd say." He began to lean back in his chair with a smug smile, when a sudden flash of light from the other end of the table hit him like a bolt of lightning. There was a muffled BOOM, and from the chair where Hadrian Malfoy had sat an instant ago, a small green snake dropped to the floor. 

The tension around the table exploded into cathartic laughter. "Showing your true form at last, Malfoy?" cackled Rodney Pickett. 

"Too bad you won't be able to apparate home until the spell wears off," snickered Fitzherbert. "But don't worry--you can slip out through the Traitor's Gate!" There were more guffaws from the table. 

"Watch out for hungry Muggles!" called Edward Bragg as the snake slid underneath the door and disappeared. "They'll eat anything they can find these days!" 

As the laughter around the table subsided, Aquitaine shook his head. "What is he doing on the War Council anyway?" he asked Fitzherbert. 

The Minister sighed. "Money talks, Rafael. You've been in politics long enough to know how that works. I didn't want him on the Council, but I was overruled once he found a way to smuggle in shipments of things we needed--or wanted--from the continent." His voice was bitter. "In a black market economy, a profiteer can write his own ticket; some people simply can't see past the bottoms of their empty cauldrons. And actually, I've always been suspicious of his motives for wanting to be on the Council." He tapped his quill angrily on the desk. "I'm pretty sure, in fact, that he was the leak on the Calais landing--" the quill snapped in half--"but I can't _prove_ it, dammit. Therefore I can't remove him. _Yet_." 

"So we watch what we say in the official meetings," interrupted Bragg, "and hold unofficial meetings to which he won't be invited. Let's get back to what Aquitaine was telling us. _Who_ is the wizard in the Nazi bosom, Rafael?" 

Aquitaine pursed his lips briefly before answering: "Grindelwald." 

Bragg sucked in his breath with a hiss. Pickett turned pale. Fitzherbert nodded grimly. The other wizard present at the table remained impassive. 

"Just wait," Aquitaine said grimly. "The news gets even worse. Minister, if you'd like to take over?" 

"Thank you, Rafael." Fitzherbert rose and walked a few steps toward the wall where a large map of Europe hung. It was clearly as ancient as the White Tower itself. Illuminated letters on mottled brown parchment showed the Latin names of the various countries. An observant tourist might have noticed a curious paradox: although the map was obviously centuries old, the borders were those of the present day. But this room had never been a stop on any Beefeater tour. 

"The monarchs of England--the smart ones, anyway--have always had a wizard or two on their councils to serve them." He looked at Bragg. "This map is the reason we needed to meet here tonight, Edward. We could not remove it from this room for study elsewhere. It has been one of England's most useful tools in times of war, and if it were removed from this wall...well, let's just say that it would make the Crown Jewels look no better protected than a rhinestone tiara in a junk shop." 

"If it works so well," interjected Bragg, "what about the wars we've lost? What about the Hundred Years War, for instance?" 

"Well, not every monarch took advantage of it," explained Fitzherbert. "Some were downright dangerous for wizards to approach. And in that particular war, we had a very powerful magical opponent in Joan of Arc." 

"That's so," agreed Bragg. "But in that case," with a nervous glance at Aquitaine, "shouldn't we be more careful about who sees this map? No offense intended, of course, Rafael," he added in a jocular tone. 

"None taken," Aquitaine shot back coolly. 

Fitzherbert sighed. "Really, Edward...given the situation, don't you think we're past the point of shouting insults at each other across the Channel?" 

Bragg nodded, conceding the point. 

"Anyway," continued the Minister, "the map was created by Rowena Ravenclaw, who was lover and advisor to William the Conqueror. Quite the scandal in her day, but she was always an interesting woman." His smile made it easy to guess which house he'd been in at Hogwarts. He tapped the map with his wand and said, "_Martialis animatis!_" 

At once, the map floated off the wall and down to the table, rotating ninety degrees on the way. It hovered a few inches above the table's surface; as it lit up with a dim glow, tiny mountains arose, miniature forests sprouted, and water welled up from underground springs, flowed into rivers and out to the seas, which crested in lazy waves along the edges. Here and there, small bands of tiny soldiers wearing different colors appeared, some moving across the terrain towards other destinations, some engaged with other bands of minuscule combatants. 

Fitzherbert walked back to the table and stood over it, using his wand as a pointer. "As you can see, this map shows us the progress and whereabouts of the armies involved in the war," he explained. "We can see the progress of the Muggle armies on the continent and in England; the figures in the blue are the Allies, the ones in red are the Axis forces. 

"Now, while this map was extremely useful for strategy in the Middle Ages, it has severe limitations when it comes to modern warfare. We can see the general location of battles and troops, but we cannot pinpoint _exactly_ where the forces are, or whether we're talking about air force or ground troops. But we _can_ see something here"--his wand hovered over Germany--"which no Muggle can. These figures in black are Wizard soldiers, which have not appeared on this map since the fourteenth century." 

"But what are they up to?" asked Pickett. His hands were laced together so tightly in front of him that the knuckles glared white. 

"From what we've learned, Grindelwald has now killed every Muggle-born of occupied Europe that he could find, using his Nazi connections to have their names submitted for deportation," replied Fitzherbert quietly. "Besides his minions in the Gestapo, he's managed to place Dark wizards among the Nazi guards at the camps themselves. Our agents can't even get close. Now we've learned that he is massing this army. Their mission is to invade every country _not_ under Hitler's regime, and begin deporting every single non-pureblood witch and wizard for execution." 

No one spoke for a full minute. 

"These camps..." said Bragg finally. "Do they appear on the map as well?" 

Fitzherbert answered, "Yes, Edward; those are the indications Rafael mentioned earlier to Malfoy, who I'm just as glad is _not_ here to see this. Rafael and I spent the morning searching the wizarding military archives, looking for anything we could find on this map. We found a spell which shows battle casualties and we tested it earlier today. It gives a rough idea of which side is suffering more casualties, which we expected--but it showed something else we _didn't_ expect." His eyes rested apologetically on Rodney Pickett. "I'm sorry--this will be a bit gruesome." 

"Go ahead," said Pickett evenly. 

Fitzherbert nodded his thanks, then tapped his wand over the map again. "_Moribundus revelatio_." 

At first glance, it wasn't too bad. Some of the tiny soldiers on either side looked up and rolled their eyes. They threw down their weapons and hurled themselves onto the ground. Their performance was almost comical. 

But then, across Germany and Eastern Europe, in places nowhere near the troops of soldiers, single drops of blood welled up on the map like puncture wounds. Tendrils of smoke appeared in the air over the drops of blood. The smoke grew thicker; the air in the room began to stink of copper and charred flesh. Small trickles began to work their way outward as more blood oozed up from somewhere underneath; the trickles turned into streams. What the ground could absorb soaked in, turning the earth itself into a horrifying, rapidly blossoming bloodstain; and still the blood flowed faster, until the rivers ran red, and then the oceans, and then the oceans themselves began to overflow. The blood began to drip thickly onto the table beneath. 

Edward Bragg screamed as the scarlet mess spattered onto his robes, staining the dark red black. "_Stop_! For the love of God, _stop it_!" he screamed in a shrill voice. 

Fitzherbert waved his wand. "_Finite Incantatem_," he murmured. The rivers of blood slowed, and then ran backwards, disappearing again into pinpoints of blood which hesitated for an instant, then vanished completely. The air cleared, the oceans turned blue, the smell was gone, and Bragg's robe was clean again--but the men in the room were forever changed by what they had witnessed. 

Rodney Pickett looked as if he were about to faint. "A _bit gruesome_, Godfrey?" he choked. "My God...my God..." But his words were lost in the sounds of Bragg's sobs. 

Fitzherbert laid his wand on the table. "I trust this will serve as sufficient proof of what we have told you," he said, almost too low to be heard. 

Aquitaine spoke into the silence. "Unfortunately, we learned of Grindelwald's plans too late to start organizing our own army. At this point, our only course is to stop Grindelwald himself. Our information leads us to believe that there is much quarreling among his followers. There is no one who commands enough loyalty to take over, should Grindelwald himself be removed from power. And we know of only one man powerful enough to take him on and have any chance at all of defeating him." 

He turned to the figure nearest the fire, who had hitherto remained silent, and all the other heads swiveled to follow suit. Fitzherbert addressed the wizard who had transfigured Hadrian Malfoy into a snake. 

"Well, Albus? What do you say?" 


	2. A Servant of the Crown

**Peripheral characters were created by me, but all recognizable names and ideas belong to J.K. Rowling. A few historical figures also appear; they obviously belong to themselves. **

_**Chapter Two: **A Servant of the Crown_

The blue eyes of Albus Dumbledore met those of Fitzherbert in a calm and even gaze. At this moment they were serious, without a trace of the lighthearted twinkle that normally kept the edges in a permanent good-humored crinkle. 

"I'm flattered by your confidence, gentlemen," he said. "But I'm also curious as to why you think that I am the one to take on a wizard such as Grindelwald." 

Fitzherbert made an impatient movement with his wand, sending out a small shower of sparks and causing the tiny figures moving about on the map to look up in surprise and confusion. "Oh come on, Albus," he snorted. "This is not the time for false modesty. Everyone in the wizarding world knows how gifted you are. You displayed it from your first day at Hogwarts." 

"That's right," agreed Pickett, a rare grin lighting up his lined face. "Remember your first day in my Transfiguration class, when you were supposed to turn a splinter of wood into a needle? You produced a curved tapestry needle, conjured up canvas and wool and had your needle magically stitching up a crest of Gryffindor while the other students were still prodding their splinters with their wands." 

Albus laughed. "And as I recall, you gave me detention for showing off and made me stitch new banners for the Great Hall by hand." 

"Taught you not to display so much power unnecessarily, didn't it?" smiled Pickett. Then his smile faded and his face turned grave. "But if ever we needed power like yours, it's now, Albus. Your talent outstrips that of every other wizard of our time, and you know it. Everyone thought my son Philip--" his voice broke for a moment, and Fitzherbert reached out and placed a hand on Pickett's shoulder--"everyone thought he was crazy for joining the Muggle army! Laughed at him! Mocked him!" He shrugged off Fitzherbert's hand angrily. "I appreciate your kind words about him, Godfrey, but you know it's true. He went to his death so hurt that no one in our world understood the importance of what he was doing. He believed the whole world--not just the wizarding world, but _all_ of us--were in such danger that it was worth any sacrifice to stop it. And he was right. He was right!" 

Albus leaned forward. "Rodney, I too think Philip was right. We all know now how right he was." He reached out, took Pickett's hand in his own and gave it a brief squeeze before continuing. "But Grindelwald is an immensely powerful wizard. And he is not only powerful, he possesses a ruthlessness which I do not." He hesitated. "But it's not the prospect of taking him on that frightens me. It's the chance that I may lose and disappoint you all." 

Fitzherbert spoke softly into the silence. "Albus, you've seen how it stands. If you can't defeat him, then we are lost anyway." His fists clenched at his sides. "You know what he is. He's criminally insane...murders for the sheer pleasure of killing. Every time we've attempted to capture him and put him in Azkaban, he's overpowered our best Aurors and murdered them. And now..." His fists unclenched, and he brought his hands up in a gesture of supplication. "Please try, Albus--I beg of you." 

Albus stood up and paced back and forth before the fire for a few minutes. In his mind's eye, he was envisioning the destruction Grindelwald had wrought on the continent, and would wreak here given the opportunity. He thought of all the fine wizards and witches he knew who were Muggle-born or half-blood. He thought of one very lovely Muggle-born witch in particular, who had kissed him goodbye and smiled up into his eyes before he came to this meeting. Albus had put his hand on the small swell of her belly and told her to not to worry, that he would be back for breakfast. He heard the laughter of all the Muggle-born children who were discovering for the first time the joy of soaring on a broomstick or performing a simple spell. The thought of what would happen to those children--including his own unborn baby--if Grindelwald got here with his army, made the bright blue eyes harden with resolve. He turned and faced the other men. 

"Yes," he said simply. 

The room exploded with cheers from the other wizards, and bright red sparks flew from their wands as they waved them about in joy. "What's the next step, Albus?" asked Edward Bragg eagerly, his round face pink with excitement. "What can we do to help you?" 

Albus exhaled slowly. "I will have to find him on the continent, I suppose." 

"There is a resistance based at Beauxbatons," offered Aquitaine. "They will do whatever it takes to help you find him. After what he has done in France--" he swallowed hard and his eyes looked murderous. "They will do whatever it takes," he repeated. 

"Do you have any ideas, Albus?" asked Rodney Pickett. "About how will you defeat him?" 

Albus said slowly, shaking his head, "I have _no_ idea." 

*** 

There was more discussion, with the aid of the magical map, of where Grindelwald might be, and a brainstorming session of strategies for duelling. Fitzherbert promised to send an owl to Dippet, the headmaster at Hogwarts, arranging a leave of absence for Dumbledore. When he finally tapped the map again, returning it to its camouflage as a medieval relic, the council members stood and stretched before putting their cloaks back on against the chill of the February night. 

"Are you going back home, Albus?" inquired Aquitaine. "I need to give you instructions on how to reach Beauxbatons." 

Albus shook his head. "I'm going to spend the night here. I need to be alone to think about this and devise some sort of plan. You can send me an owl here tomorrow, Rafael." 

"Here?" asked Bragg, puzzled. "But where will you sleep?" 

Albus smiled. "There is a room here in the Tower, in the Queen's House, which is always available to wizards serving the Crown...which technically I am, since His Majesty has a great interest in our Council. I'll be quite safe there. And I'll have the peace and quiet I need to make a plan." 

While the others council members bade each other farewell, Aquitaine stepped in close to Albus and took his arm. "Albus," he said urgently, "you will need a second. If you wish, I should be glad to oblige--" 

"Thank you, Rafael," replied Albus, the twinkle returning to his eyes. "But I already have someone in mind." He added, as Aquitaine began to protest, "Someone who does not have a family to worry about leaving behind." The other man was silent. 

One by one, the other wizards said goodbye to Albus and wished him luck, then disapparated back to their homes. Albus stood before the violet fire a moment longer, then extinguished it with a wave of his wand. He put on his cloak, then reached into one of its voluminous pockets and withdrew an Invisibility Cloak. He donned it before stepping into the corridor. He made his way down the steps and out onto the lawn of the Tower grounds. Walking across the stretch that led to the Queen's House, he looked up at the sky, still clouded over and moonless. A sharp peck on his toe made him wince and he looked down. 

"Hello there, Cholmondeley," he whispered to the black raven at his feet. The Tower raven pecked him on the ankle in reply. 

"Ouch!" exclaimed Albus as quietly as he could. "That was a bit rough, old boy!" He shook his finger reprovingly at the bird. "Listen, no more of that--I'm incognito." He nodded at the sentry patrolling the grounds a few hundred yards away. The raven ignored him, flapped his wings and attempted to land on Albus's outstretched finger. "Hey, no! Get off! That sentry's going to wonder how you're managing to perch in mid-air!" he laughed. "Now, pay attention: I've got a job for you. I need an owl to send a message. Can you summon one and send it to the Queen's House?" 

The raven looked offended. Albus whispered, "Look, I'd send you with the message if I could. But your wings are clipped, remember?" The raven cawed indignantly and then stalked off. Albus sighed. The Tower ravens were a temperamental bunch. He hoped Cholmondeley would cooperate and call an owl for him. He needed to send a message to his wife, telling her he'd be away a bit longer than he'd planned. 

*** 

The Queen's House half-timber facade made it instantly recognizable as Tudor-period construction. "Queen's House" was somewhat a misnomer; it was a handsome collection of buildings that looked more residential than administrative. It sat opposite the chapel of St. Peter ad Vincula, separated from it by the width of Tower Green--a pleasant expanse of lawn made less so by the private execution scaffold left over from Henry's days. The Queen's House itself had become the official residence of the Head of the Yeoman Guard many years since. 

Albus quietly approached the corner building and glanced about to make sure no sentries were looking in his direction. He tapped on the lock with his wand, whispered "_Alohomora,_" then closed the door silently behind him after entering. He slipped silently up the stairs and down the hall until he came to a painting of a young girl in a blue velvet dress standing in a room with large windows, out of which the viewer could see the Tower in the distance. "_Sanctum admagus,_" he whispered. The wall on which the painting hung began to waver, then a small oak door appeared underneath the frame of the picture. He turned the knob, bent low and entered a room which the occupants of the house believed to be a small plumbing space. As soon as he closed it, the door disappeared, and Albus straightened up. 

He was in a bedroom which might have been decorated for Queen Elizabeth herself. Tapestries depicting hunt scenes covered the walls, the rich colors still vivid despite their age. A large fireplace, in which a small, cheerful blaze had sprung up as soon as he closed the door, stood at the center of the room; objets d'art which would make a museum curator's eyes pop were strewn casually on the mantel. The gray slate floor was warmed by the soft thick Persian rugs which lay underfoot, adding to the glowing colors in the room. On the wall directly behind him was a large gold-framed portrait. It was the same as the one in the hall outside, except that it was about five times as large. The girl in the blue dress smiled at him and said, "Welcome, magus! I hope you will find everything here to your satisfaction." Albus assured her that he did. 

He returned the Invisibility Cloak to the pocket of his outer cloak, then removed that and hung it on a carved pegboard attached to the wall. He crossed to the fire and sank wearily into the armchair which stood before, too tired and distracted to appreciate its cloth-of-gold upholstery, hand-embroidered with runes and astrological symbols. "Ye gods," he said aloud, "what have I gotten myself into?" 

He leaned back, closed his eyes and began to think. The last time he had seen Grindelwald was at the Triwizard Tournament of 1932. Grindelwald had been the Durmstrang champion and Albus the champion for Hogwarts. The tournament was never completed; the Beauxbatons champion, Des Oliviers, had died in the second task, while the three of them were in the Forbidden Forest attempting to catch a unicorn. The French student's death had never been explained to anyone's satisfaction; some people--Albus among them--suspected Grindelwald of murder, but nothing could be proven. Even a dose of Veritaserum had proven useless; either Grindelwald really was innocent, or had used some obscure Dark Art charm to overcome the effects of the potion. Albus thought the latter more likely, particularly since Grindelwald had been throwing out boastful hints about his mastery of the Dark Arts ever since his arrival at Hogwarts that fall. 

After Durmstrang, Grindelwald had trained as an Auror in Germany. Given the suspicion surrounding the events of the Triwizard Tournament, the International Magical Council had strongly recommended his acceptance into the program, but had no local power to enforce their recommendation. He was a formidable student, mastering every technique with incredible ease and speed. Some who had doubted his intentions were reassured; the rest waited for the other shoe to drop. 

They had not had long to wait. Grindelwald had gone Dark almost immediately, using the Aurors' techniques against them on the rare occasions that they found and tried to capture him. Most of them were found tortured to death; the ones who survived were no longer fit to work as Aurors. Albus knew that he himself was a good wizard--but how was he to defeat someone who was not only cunning and powerful, but who would stop at absolutely nothing? Madmen were difficult to outthink. 

A whooshing sound broke into Albus's thoughts; he opened his eyes and found a large, tawny owl sitting on the footstool. Cholmondeley had come through after all. 

"Ah--came down the chimney, I see. Very smart, since there are no windows," he chuckled to the owl. He reached into his pocket and extracted a dried sausage. "Here; have a bite to eat while I'm composing my letter," he told it. The owl hopped down to the hearth, placed a clawed foot atop the sausage, and began to tear chunks out of it with obvious relish. 

Albus crossed to the massive oak desk across the room, illuminated the candles hovering above it with a word, and took a piece of parchment from the ample stack stowed in a cubbyhole. Dipping a quill into the inkpot, he wondered what--and how much--to tell his wife. 

_Dear Mireille,_ he began. He put down the quill, staring at the tapestry on the wall before him, but not seeing it. 

Would it be better to tell her the truth or not? He hated to worry her, especially since she was pregnant. On the other hand, if he lost the upcoming duel, she and the child would be in danger. What he wanted to do was to tell her to go and hide at her parents' house. He frowned. Knowing Mireille, if she thought Albus was in trouble, she would insist on coming with him, pregnant or not. And right now, the last thing he needed was to waste his energy trying to convince his adored and headstrong wife that she would only make his task harder if she were with him. 

She was really better off at her parents', he thought, and unaware of what was going on. Before the duel, he would instruct his second that if Grindelwald won, he was to find her there, and hide her as best he could, to keep her and their child safe. He knew the man he was asking this of would give his life before he would let Mireille or the baby come to harm. He picked up the quill. 

_I hope this letter finds you feeling well. It seems, my love, that I will not be home for breakfast after all. The Minister has asked me to take care of a small task. It shouldn't take more than a few days--a week at the most. It's nothing dangerous, just the retrieval of some hidden documents that might be useful in helping the Muggles win the war. Although the end seems to be in sight, he would like to hasten it if possible. You should go and visit your parents while I'm away so you don't get lonely. I'm sure your mother has by now created another trunkful of baby things for you to take home. I really should pick up some MagiKnit needles for her in Diagon Alley while I'm here. Then again, as she's already knitted over a hundred baby outfits with ordinary Muggle needles--perhaps not! _

All my love, 

Albus 

He put down the quill and sighed. He had never lied to Mireille before, and it gave him an uncomfortable feeling to do so now. Well, when he was back safely--from now on, he must not think any other outcome possible--he would tell her the truth. She'd tell him off heatedly, then burst into tears, throw her arms around him and eventually they'd laugh about it. He folded the parchment and whistled at the owl, who flew over and dropped the half-eaten sausage on the desk. 

"Quite all right, my friend," Albus told him, eyeing the savaged meat. "You keep it." He attached the message to the owl's leg and gave him a pat. The bird picked the sausage up in his claws and swooped through the flames and back up the chimney. 

Albus put out the candles and made his way over to the draped and canopied four-poster bed in the corner. He hung his wand on the top of an intricately carved bedpost, slid in between the linen sheets and soft featherbed, and closed his eyes, wishing Mireille were there so he could hold her close, stroke her dark hair, and laugh with her at jokes told in the private language of lovers. He turned over, pulled the quilt up to his chin and had almost drifted off to sleep when a loud thumping noise made him sit straight up, wide awake. He yanked back the drape, its rings clattering noisily along the rod. 

A small figure stood next to the bed, silhouetted by the firelight. Albus reached for his wand, illuminated it, and peered in surprise at a diminutive house-elf. "What on earth--who are you?" he murmured. "Do you have a message for me?" 

"Oh yes, I does, sir," squeaked the frightened elf. "I is come to tell you that you isn't to leave England to fight Lord Grindelwald." 

"Oh?" said Albus. "And why is that?" 

"Because, sir--" gulped the elf, "--he is here. In London." 


	3. The Offer of the Queen

**Peripheral characters were created by me, but all recognizable names and ideas belong to J.K. Rowling. A few historical figures also appear; they obviously belong to themselves. **

_**Chapter Three: **The Offer of the Queen_

"Here in London?" Albus felt his heart leap into his throat with fear. Grindelwald in London? But why? "How do you know that? Who _are_ you?" 

"I is a house-elf, sir," whimpered the frightened figure. 

"Blast it, I can see that much for myself!" snapped Albus. He was immediately filled with remorse. The small creature in front of him was clearly terrified; her eyes bulged madly, and every part of her shook so hard that her batwing-shaped ears fluttered as if they were about to take flight. "I'm sorry--forgive me for speaking so harshly. I mean to say, what is your name? Who sent you here? And how did you get in here?" The last question had him greatly concerned; as one of the highest-security areas in magical England, this room had had as many impenetrable spells on it as Hogwarts Castle itself. Those spells had never been breached, not since the haven had been created by Queen Elizabeth herself in 1560. 

The elf stood mute and trembling, confused by the barrage of questions. Albus got out of bed and illuminated the candles in the room. He took the elf by the hand, and--ignoring her frightened gasps--swung her into the armchair by the fire, then seated himself on the ottoman at her feet. Conjuring up a small glass of mead, he handed it to the elf, whose eyes bulged out so far they looked ready to jump out of their sockets. He leaned forward in a friendly, _tête-à-tête_ manner. 

"Now then. Let's try this again. What is your name?" 

"Gillyflower, sir, but everyone calls me Gilly." 

"All right, Gilly. Have a sip of that mead, it'll make you feel nice and warm. That's it. Did someone send you here to give me this message?" 

The elf coughed and spluttered on the mouthful of mead. "Oh, no sir! Gilly isn't supposed to be here at all! I will be in bad trouble for sneaking off when I gets back. But I is hearing my master say you was here at the Tower, sir, so I--I--" she swallowed. "I come to warn you about Lord Grindelwald being here, sir." 

"And your master would be who?" 

Her hand trembled so violently that mead spilled out of the glass, but she looked at him reproachfully. "Albus Dumbledore, you know I isn't going to tell you that." 

He sat back, perplexed. This wasn't normal behavior for a house-elf at all. She had come here to warn Albus of some plot involving her master--yet she wasn't going to name her master. And despite her obvious fear, for a house-elf, she seemed extraordinarily poised and self-possessed. It was ludicrous. Could this be some sort of trap? 

"That's fine, Gilly. In a moment, I will want to know how you found out Grindelwald was here in London. There is something else I would like to ask you first, though. This room has been made magically impenetrable by every charm and spell known to us. Only wizards or witches on government business are admitted to this room. Yet you managed to get in. How did you do that?" 

"_I_ let her in," said a querulous voice to his right. 

He turned his head. Standing by the desk was a misty figure of a woman dressed in green velvet. A white linen cap covered most of her dark hair. Of course, Albus had to glance down to notice this, since she carried her head in her arms. It was the ghost of Anne Boleyn. 

***

Normally the most unflappable of men, even Albus was nonplussed; it wasn't every day that one chatted with both a schizophrenic house-elf and the ghost of a former Queen of England. He blinked, then recovered his composure. Rising to his feet and bowing low, he greeted the ghost: "Your Majesty. I am honored. Might I introduce myself? I am Albus Dumbledore." 

"Good evening to you, Dumbledore," she replied somewhat snappishly. "You may dispense with the formalities. At the moment, I am here merely in the capacity of another witch concerned with the imminent attack by Grindelwald. You may call me Anne." 

"As you wish--Anne," said Albus. He managed to throw her a charming smile , but felt as though someone had Stunned him from behind. Had Anne been lurking invisibly in the Council meeting with them--or was there a leak somewhere already? "But tell me--if I may be so bold as to ask, how did _you_ learn of this threat by Grindelwald? I myself only learned of it this evening in the Council meeting; the intelligence is no more than a few days old." 

The queen returned her head to her shoulders so she could give it a haughty toss. Albus was grateful; it was singularly unnerving to speak to a head cradled in the arms of its owner. 

"I could have told you about it four years ago," she replied in a steady voice. "However, no one from the wizarding world came here in all that time. And I cannot leave this house." She glared at Albus, as though he were somehow to blame for her lack of visitors, or her confinement to the Queen's House, or both. "But now that someone is _finally_ here, I will tell you the whole story." She moved to the armchair and looked at Gilly, who jumped up immediately and moved to stand on the hearth. Anne seated herself, spreading her skirts carefully, and motioned for Albus to take a seat on the ottoman. 

"A few years ago," said Anne, "a German Muggle named Rudolf Hess was briefly imprisoned in this house. As was I, before my execution, you know," she added in a tone of mournful self-importance. Albus inclined his head sympathetically. That seemed to satisfy her, and she went on: "Grindelwald came here to visit him and I overheard their conversations." 

Albus's jaw dropped. "Grindelwald was _here_? In the _Tower_?" he asked. 

"Indeed," she replied. "Though not in this room, of course. From what I gathered, this Adolf Hittite--" 

"Hitler," corrected Albus, yanking the ends of his beard to keep his lips from twitching. 

"As you say," replied Anne coldly, glaring at him again. "This Hitler has always been intrigued with our world, though he could only find the few bits that have leaked to the Muggle sphere--mythology, astrology, modes of divination, little bits of arithmancy and such. Once Grindelwald learned of this fascination, he decided to reveal himself to Hitler and form an alliance with him. Naturally the Muggle was thrilled beyond measure to not only learn that there was such a thing as real magic, but at the thought of being able to harness it as well." 

Albus winced. The neverending madness of humanity, whether Muggle or magical, never ceased to distress him. 

"After Hess was captured in Scotland and brought here," Anne went on, becoming less regal in manner as she warmed to her subject, "Grindelwald apparated to his room and had a talk with him. I was here in this room, listening to their conversation through the wall. Hess was telling the government some ridiculous story about bringing a peace offer to Britain, but that was just a cover, of course. His real mission was to discover the whereabouts of Hogwarts." 

Albus snorted with disbelief. "What? He couldn't see Hogwarts from a Muggle aeroplane! That's a machine the Muggles have invented to fly in," he added. 

"I know what aeroplanes are!" retorted Anne waspishly. "Enough of them have flown over England dropping bombs that I shouldn't doubt the very rocks of Stonehenge know what they are by now!" 

"Sorry," smiled Albus. "You're right, of course. So Grindelwald must have told Hess about Hogwarts beforehand--but still, how could he possibly see it from a Muggle plane? It's been too well enchanted; no Muggles could find it even if they knew what they were looking for." 

Anne pursed her lips and shook her head. "That I don't know. Grindelwald must have given Hess some apparatus to get past the enchantments, because I heard him ask the Muggle if he had destroyed the filter once he was down. Hess said that he had, even though the men who found him and searched his aeroplane would have thought that it was an ordinary--" she frowned, trying to remember the word, "an ordinary--owl-limiter?" She looked questioningly at Albus. 

"Altimeter?" he suggested. 

She nodded. "Yes, that was it." 

"And did Hess tell Grindelwald he had found Hogwarts?" asked Albus--though part of him didn't want to know the answer. 

"Oh yes," confirmed Anne. "I heard him tell Grindelwald exactly how to get there." 

_Bloody hell!_ thought Albus. He leaned in closer to Anne, his shoulder muscles beginning to ache with tension. "My dear lady--did you happen to hear _why_ Grindelwald was interested in finding the school?" 

Anne shook her head regretfully. "No. He didn't say why he wanted to find it." Her eyes flashed with anger. "But they did talk about their plan to get rid of all the Muggles and magicals they think are destroying their precious purity of blood," she spat. 

"And what did you hear of those plans?" asked Albus, his eyebrows raised. 

Anne fairly snarled her answer. "They are planning to round up everyone who doesn't meet their criteria for racial purity--Hess was blabbering some nonsense about the Aryan race--and Grindelwald was agreeing, talking about Muggle-borns and half-bloods." Her dark eyes grew even darker. "They thought it would become official policy by the end of that year." 

"And it seems that it did," Albus observed quietly. "Hitler has already killed thousands of people--maybe even millions, unthinkable as that seems.' He shuddered, remembering the blood pouring out of the map. "But his power is waning, his armies are losing, and the captives in those places should be free within a few months--the ones who are lucky enough to still be alive then," he added grimly. 

"But if Grindelwald is on Hitler's side, why is Germany losing the war now?" Anne asked. 

Albus shook his head slowly. "It doesn't make much sense," he agreed. He rose from the ottoman and began to pace the room. "Obviously Grindelwald doesn't care if Hitler loses--or actually _wants_ him to lose." He stopped, frowning. "I think we did legitimately put one over on him with the D-Day invasion," he mused aloud, "but no Muggle army could withstand Grindelwald, if he really wanted to defeat them. He'd have to use magic, yes, but it's not as though there would be any survivors left to report it." 

"Of course not," said Anne. "And he must have enchanted Hess's plane as well. How else could it have reached Scotland without being shot down by our defense forces?" 

Albus smiled despite the gravity of the situation. She was one smart cookie, this Anne of the thousand days. "Excellent point, Your Majesty." 

She smiled proudly, appreciating the flattery that she'd missed for hundreds of years. 

"I'm guessing that Grindelwald's intention must be to continue his hideous program, but without Hitler, for some reason," continued Albus. "Why, I don't know. But if it's true that he has already wiped out most of the half-bloods on the Continent--and I'm afraid that it is--he now wants to move on to England. Any witch or wizard here with Muggle blood will be in grave danger." He thought of Mireille again and clenched his teeth together hard. 

"But I am curious, Your Majesty," he said quietly, looking at Anne, "as to why _you_ are so concerned with this matter--after all, if I may point out, you yourself are hardly in danger." A small grim smile played about the corners of his lips. 

"That's not the point!" Anne snapped. She arose from her chair, paced back and forth for a moment, then suddenly whirled and faced him. He started backward slightly--he had never seen such a look of pure fury on anyone's face, ghost or living. 

"Listen to me, Albus Dumbledore. No matter what the history books say, I had my head cut off because I was _different_. Henry saw it, his ministers saw it, even the common people in the streets saw it. They called me a witch at my own coronation! They hated me! And I paid with my blood--my _witch's_ blood," she snarled. "God knows I did things wrong--I sent men to their graves through my selfishness--but I did produce one good thing, and that was my daughter Elizabeth. My _half-blood_ daughter Elizabeth," she spat. "And she, too, had to suffer until finally--_finally_--she came to the throne where she belonged. And do you know what she said in her first address to Parliament? Every Muggle schoolchild learns it. She said:_ I will not open windows into men's souls._ What she meant was: _I won't look for a reason to kill people, simply_ _because they are_ _different_. 

"And now these lunatics--Hitler and Grindelwald--are murdering people on a scale that makes Bloody Mary look like the _Virgin_ Mary--because _those_ people are different! And I won't stand for it! I won't!" she cried furiously. She burst into tears and sank back into the chair. Albus, secretly feeling a new twinge of sympathy for Henry VIII, nodded at her in understanding. She covered her face with her hands for a moment, weeping. Then she looked at him with her dark eyes ablaze again, and spoke in a low trembling voice. 

"Sometimes I look out these windows and watch the children passing. The magical ones see me, and wave at me till their Muggle parents come pull them away. Hitler has killed enough of those children with his bombs. I can't bear the thought of Grindelwald getting the rest of them. Killing them the way he would have killed my daughter--my _half-blood daughter_," she hissed again, "who, even with a great murdering Muggle for a father, was still a superb witch." 

"A superb witch as well as a very great queen," Albus agreed. "I assume you trained her?" 

"As much as I could." Anne gave a melancholy sigh. "She was only three when I died, you know. But when she was locked up here by that mad half-sister of hers, I visited her and taught her as much as I could of what I learned at Beauxbatons." Her mouth turned down at the corners and she looked forlorn. Then she looked up at him again, with a somber expression. "Those were very dark times, Dumbledore. I was--" her mouth twisted and she looked down at the floor--"I was responsible for a great deal of the misery that followed Henry's divorce from Katherine," she said bitterly. Then she faced him again, her eyes brimming with silvery tears, but her face resolute. "I want to absolve myself by doing whatever I can now to stop Grindelwald. I only wish I had been able to tell someone about Grindelwald before now." 

He rose and bowed low before her. "Your Majesty," he said to her, "I'm glad we've got you on our side." Their eyes met, and they smiled at one another. 

At that moment, Gilly, who had been standing motionless and quiet by the fire throughout this exchange, gave a small shriek as a dark shape streaked past her and landed next to Albus, who bent to untie the message from the owl's leg. "Probably from Aquitaine," he said aloud to no one in particular, "giving me directions to--" He stopped and his face went white as he saw the message. 

_Albus, _

You are in possession of something which I need. It is something you will not wish me to have; the fact remains that I would very much like to have it. Thus in the ancient tradition, I challenge you to a little contest for it. If you would be so kind as to meet me in the Aldwych station of the London Underground at four o'clock this afternoon, I would be much obliged. Bring along a second. 

Your humble servant, 

Gustavus Grindelwald 

Albus frowned as he read and re-read the note, utterly bewildered. What did Grindelwald want? And why would he want to meet at a Muggle tube station? It made no sense. Here he had been planning to seek Grindelwald all over the continent to defeat him, and now Grindelwald was _here_, challenging _him_ to a duel. It was disorienting, to say the least. He felt like a tightrope walker whose balance pole has suddenly been snatched away, leaving him fighting for equilibrium in mid-air. 

He felt the eyes of Anne and Gilly on him. "It's from Grindelwald," he told them. 

"What does he want?" said Anne. 

"Well, he is here in London, as Gilly warned me. He also wants something, and wants it enough to challenge me to a duel over it." He read them the note, then looked at the elf. "What more can you tell me about this, Gilly? I don't suppose you know what it is that he wants?" 

"Yes, sir," she said, her already-enormous eyes bulging even further. "What he is wanting is the philosopher's stone that you have in a vault at Gringotts, sir." 

Albus reeled. The philosopher's stone in the hands of that madman? The consequences would be unthinkable. The stone, with its ability to produce the elixir of life, as well as transmute any base metal into pure gold, would give Grindelwald ultimate power to pursue his evil program. "Impossible, of course. We might just as well hand over his victims right now. He'll have to kill me in that duel before I'll surrender it to him. But why in a tube station?" he asked, pondering out loud. "It's preposterous; the stations are always full of Muggles even in peacetime. Since the bombing began, the stations are packed with people sleeping there to avoid the bombs." 

Gilly spoke up. "I've s-seen a m-m-map that my master keeps in his study," she said, blushing. It was clearly difficult for her to admit this to outsiders. "I is not knowing how the Muggle trains work, sir," she stammered, "but I could see on the map that this station--Aldwych--has some sort of tunnel through to Gringotts." 

"Ah," said Albus slowly. "That would explain it, then. Grindelwald trying to get into the goblin-run Gringotts Bank through Diagon Alley would be like Hitler walking into Harrods to buy a new tie." The corners of his mouth twitched at the thought. 

Anne interrupted. "What tube? What are trains? I have no idea what you two are talking about!" She was Her Majesty the Queen again. 

Albus bowed in apology. "I beg your pardon, your Majesty. The Muggles have established an excellent system of city transportation." He paused, thinking of how best to explain it. "Most of it, like Gringotts, is an underground network of tube-shaped tunnels, hence the system is referred to as the Underground, or the Tube. The Muggles get in large carriages which travel quickly on metal rails and stop at various destinations. It's very cheap and convenient for them." 

Anne threw him a look of disbelief. "What a confounded way to travel! Give me Floo powder any day." 

Albus laughed. "I agree that Floo powder is superior, but the Muggles do the best they can. Actually I quite admire their ingenuity. It's amazing what they've accomplished with no magic. Electricity, for instance--now they can illuminate a room as easily as we can. They also use it to run the trains in the Underground that I was telling you about." 

"Yes, they've put that in here as well," said Anne. "When I go through the walls, I see all the clumsy wires and boxes they can't." She made a face. 

"It may be clumsy, but it's quite interesting," replied Albus. "I decided a few years back to study it, and got some books on the subject. I wanted to understand the power they were tapping into. I found that it's similar to the power we draw on when we do magic. We use wands to channel and focus the energy that exists around us; they do something similar, only they use wires instead of wands." He bowed to her again, then turned to Gilly. As much as he would enjoy explaining all things Muggle to the ghost of Anne Boleyn, now wasn't the time. 

"Gilly," he asked, "is there anything else you need to tell me about?" 

"I wish I could, sir," said the elf in her high-pitched voice. "But that is all I is knowing. I is sorry I cannot be of more help." 

"On the contrary, Gilly, you've been a great help," said Albus. "At least I know what Grindelwald is after, and why he has asked me to meet him in a tube station. That gives me an enormous advantage. And I know how hard this was for you. But tell me--why _did_ you come here to warn me? Most house-elves wouldn't have." He was still very curious about her odd behavior. 

She blinked up at him. "Albus Dumbledore, sir, I may belong to my master, but I knows right from wrong." Her large eyes blinked up at him. "And...and I has a little son. When Grindelwald came to my master's house, my littl'un and I were cleaning the study while they was talking. We overheard him and the master --hard not to overhear, they talk like we wasn't right there in the room with ears to hear--they was talking about what they was planning to do. And my son, he looks at me and says, 'Mama, what are we going to do? We has to help those people!'" She swallowed. "I can't teach my boy right from wrong if I don't do something about evil under my very nose, can I?" 

Albus nodded thoughtfully. Gilly was clearly a breed apart from the average house-elf. "I agree, Gilly. And thank you. You've done a great deal to help. If I can do anything for you in the future, Gilly--or for your son--please feel free to call on me." He gave her a warm smile, then faced Anne again. "Your Majesty, might I ask your permission to retire? It is almost dawn, and I will need what sleep I can get." 

"Of course, Dumbledore," she answered. Her dark eyes met and held his. "Good luck to you. You know where to find me if there's anything else I can do. Come, Gillyflower, let us leave Dumbledore to his rest." She motioned to the elf, who stepped forward. Anne took Gilly's hand, then they vanished. 

Albus moved to the bed. He was exhausted, yet he know he would not sleep. He curled up on the featherbed again. He closed his eyes, frowning, trying to concentrate, to remember everything he could about Grindelwald--any details that might help him win the duel. Instead, his mind turned, again and again, to Mireille. 

***

Mireille Dumbledore was not pretty, but her upturned nose and too-wide mouth were forgotten whenever she threw her head back and laughed. One couldn't help but start laughing along with her, and love her in the process. For three seasons out of the year, any fine day would find her tending the profusion of plants that sprawled all over the front yard of their cottage in Hogsmeade. There wasn't much for her to do in the garden now that it was winter, so today she would be working in her dispensary, bottling and labelling her magical medicines, which were much in demand in the shops of Hogsmeade and Diagon Alley. 

She would be rising about now, Albus thought--she liked to get up early. He pictured her moving about their little cottage, yawning and standing in the kitchen in her bare feet, waiting for her tea to steep and absently fingering the chesspiece she wore as a pendant. He smiled, remembering when he had given her the little silver queen. 

They had met at Hogwarts in their third year, when they had Herbology together. Mireille, although Muggle-born, was already a star pupil in the subject; she had been gardening ever since she was old enough to hold a trowel. But the magical uses of plants were something new to her, and her unrestrained comments often had the class--both Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs--shrieking with laughter ("Plantain seeds make a potion that help you run faster? Huh--Mum always gave them to us when we were constipated--reckon we did run pretty fast once they started working"). She was equally adept at potions, could play a mean game of Quidditch, and even did well in the mind-numbingly boring History of Magic class. 

But she couldn't play chess to save her life. 

Albus had always been good at chess; even as a boy, he could see the patterns inherent in the pieces' movements, and map out defense and offense tactics with ease. After they began seeing one another, they played every evening in the Great Hall after dinner, using a Muggle set she owned--she said the Wizard pieces distracted her too much when they shouted directions at her. He won every time, no matter how obsessively she studied the strategies in every book she could find. But as frustrated and angry as she was at the end of every game, she'd look up at him, square her shoulders and grin, "I'll get you tomorrow night." She never did, though--except once, in their seventh year. 

They had been playing every night for over three years, and although she had improved, she still couldn't defeat him. There were only a few pieces left on the board near the end of that night's game. Mireille had trapped his king in the back row, and was close to checkmating him, except that she couldn't quite break through his defense. She studied the board for a moment, then made one of the typical foolhardy moves that she was prone to in endgame; she reached out, moved her queen to the back row where his king stood, cupped her chin in both hands again, saying "Check" in a dull voice. 

Albus sighed in frustration; why did she always make these desperate attacks that only lost her pieces? He looked at her, then nodded at the bishop that stood on a diagonal with her queen. "Do you want to take that move back?" he asked her; he knew she hated losing her queen. 

She closed her eyes, shook her head, then covered her face with her hands. "Go on. Take it," she said in a muffled voice. 

Albus raised one eyebrow and the corner of his mouth in an if-you-say-so expression, then swept her queen off the board with the bishop. 

Her hands came off her face and he saw that she was grinning, her eyes gleaming in triumph. She moved her rook, like the final piece of a jigsaw puzzle, into a space that had been guarded by the bishop--threatening the king, which couldn't be moved to escape. "Checkmate!" she shouted gleefully. 

He looked at the board in astonishment, then grinned broadly. He pushed over the king with his finger, then told her, "Congratulations." 

"HAH!" she yelled joyfully. She leapt from her seat and began to dance about the room. "I beat you! I BEAT YOU!" she screamed in delight. She began turning cartwheels along the Great Hall, laughing wildly. Her legs became tangled in her robes and she smacked hard into a table that hadn't been cleared yet; plates flew through the air and crashed to the floor, splattering them both with food. Lying on the floor, she wiped mashed potatoes out of her eyes, peered at Albus from upside down, and yelled again, "I FINALLY BEAT YOU!" Shaking with laughter, he went to help her up, but as he bent and reached for her hand, he slipped in gravy. His leg went out from under him and he fell onto his back. Now he was lying next to her on the floor, and both of them were laughing so hard that tears squeezed from the corners of their eyes and ran into their ears. 

"You're a terrible sport," he finally gasped when he could catch a breath and turn his head to face her. 

She looked back at him, grinning. "I know," she gasped, "but at least I don't have a green pea hanging out of my nose." She turned her head away and screamed with laughter again. 

"That does it!" He reached out, grabbed a handful of her food-spattered robes and pulled her on top of him. He put a hand on either side of her head, pushed his fingers through her custard-covered hair, and pulled her head down close to his, his eyes suddenly serious. He hadn't realized his next words were going to come out of his mouth, but they did anyway: "Mireille--will you marry me?" 

Her eyes widened, then she smiled again. "Of course I will. Who else would I marry, you swotty little show-off?" He smiled too then, and their mouths closed together in a kiss that lasted until they noticed that a teacher had walked into the Great Hall and was gaping at the Gryffindor Prefect and his Hufflepuff girlfriend lying on the floor, covered with food. 

The next day Albus went to London, and in a Muggle antique shop, found the tarnished little queen among a jumble of spoons, card cases and other sterling silver miscellany. He bought it (she had taught him how to use Muggle money), opened a small hole in the top with his wand, and strung it on a silver chain. When Mireille opened the gift-wrapped box, she had thrown her head back and laughed. She was still giggling as he fastened the clasp around her neck; he smiled into her eyes and whispered, "I love your laugh; I want to hear that sound every day for the rest of my life." 

Now Mireille--and their child--were in mortal danger unless he defeated Grindelwald. Albus's jaw set in a determined way. He _would_ win, he told himself, or die trying. 


	4. The Appointment of the Second

**Peripheral characters were created by me, but all recognizable names and ideas belong to J.K. Rowling. A few historical figures also appear; they obviously belong to themselves. The concept of being "dim," which appears in this chapter, belongs to Stephen King.**

_**Chapter Four: **The Appointment of the Second_

Grindelwald was laughing, an evil sound that made the hair on the back of Albus's neck stand up. They were in a dimly lit cave; the sound of his opponent's laughter bounced off the walls and stalactites. Grindelwald, silhouetted against an eerie blue glow, pointed his wand at Albus's head and shouted "Avada Kedavra!" Albus brought up his wand to deflect the lethal curse, but saw that his wand had turned into a handful of long black snakes, hissing and spitting.... 

He sat up in bed, his heart racing and his stomach unpleasantly relocated somewhere in his chest. He exhaled hard, then closed his eyes and began to breathe deeply through his nose. Blocking out everything but the sensation of cool air rushing in, then warm air flowing out, he felt his heartbeat slow and his body relax again. 

When he felt relatively calm (considering he was to fight a battle today that would determine the fate of thousands of people including his wife, a little bit of gut-wrenching terror wasn't unreasonable), he crossed the room and found a steaming hot breakfast set out for him on the desk; bacon, eggs, buttery brown toast, and a large pot of very good tea. As he ate, he turned over in his mind his next steps. Thinking of the actual duel made him feel as though his stomach was filled with a lot of very pointy ice shards; thinking logically about what he should do next made the fear go away--a little. 

He forced himself to finish all the food and keep it down. When the plate was clear, he put on his robe and tucked his wand inside, then approached the painting of the girl in the blue dress. 

"Your breakfast was good?" she inquired with the anxious manner of someone who likes to play host but doesn't get to do it very often. 

"Delicious, thank you" he told her with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "I'd like to go out near the Byward Tower, please." 

"My pleasure," she said. "Hop up." She extended a hand to him; he took out and felt himself pulled into the painting--a sensation that was like being pulled forward into a strong vortex of wind. Then he was there in the room with her; she crossed to the window that overlooked the Tower, and scanned the figures walking around, waiting for a break in the crowd. "All right," she said after a moment, "NOW!" 

He climbed to the ledge and jumped toward the Byward Tower; it was a strange feeling, and he was glad he didn't have to travel this way often. As he jumped, he felt the push that was the converse of the pull he had felt before, pushing him out of the painting and onto the Tower grounds. He landed upright with a soft thump on the grass, and looked about cautiously to make sure no one had observed him. No one in sight. Good. He stood for a moment with his eyes closed, performing a spell he had learned on his travels in a faraway world--he made himself dim. London's streets were too crowded to use the Invisibility Cloak, but by becoming dim, no one would take notice of him. He strode across out to Tower Hill and walked over to the Mark Lane Underground station. 

Albus enjoyed taking the Underground. He thought it a system of remarkable ingenuity. He liked the hustle-bustle busy feel of it. Inside the station, he stopped before the map at the station. Aldwych was closed, and had been since the war began. Never been a busy station to begin with, it was now reserved for use as an air-raid shelter. 

In fact, Albus mused, it was strange that originally, the station had been designed with twin tunnels between Aldwych and Holborn, but was so little used that the second platform was finally closed ten years later, in 1917. There was some argument among the Muggles as to why it was designed this way in the first place, and Albus suspected that the goblins who controlled Gringotts might have had a hand in that. They were good with befuddling spells aimed at accomplishing their ends. If there was a tunnel from Aldwych through to Gringotts, he was sure that it would be somewhere in the abandoned running tunnel whose existence the Muggles couldn't quite explain. 

He purchased a ticket and boarded the train. Across from him sat several young soldiers; Albus recalled with a pang Mireille's good-natured brother Ted, dead along with Phillip Pickett, on the beaches of Normandy. He got off at Charing Cross, then walked over to Diagon Alley. Although the wizarding world had not adopted ration cards, the effects of wartime were visible in the signs tacked up in the shop windows: 

_Snakeskins, 3 sickles a bag--limit two!_

_Used cauldrons only--no new available due to the war._

_Cotton work robes only! No French silk in stock._

In front of Magical Menagerie, he could hear a faint din; when he opened the door, the noise magnified. In front of the cages on one wall, a large figure was bent double, chirruping softly to the creatures within. 

"Hello, Hagrid," said Albus. 

The improbably large figure of a young man straightened and turned. "Professor Dumbledore!" His black eyes lit up with happy surprise at the sight of his favorite former teacher. "What brings you here?" Seizing his former Transfiguration teacher's hand between his own two enormous paws, he wrung it up and down so enthusiastically that Albus felt his wrist bones cracking. "It sure is good to see yeh! Did Mrs. Dumbledore come with yeh?" He looked about for Mireille. 

"No, she's back home in Hogsmeade," replied Albus, extricating his hand from Hagrid's bear-like grasp. "It's good to see you too, Rubeus. As to what brings me here, we need to have a talk about that. Where is Madame Fauve?" 

"She's in th' back. We just got a new shipment of salamanders in and they all got out of the box and went runnin' up the chimney," grinned Hagrid. 

Albus grinned back. "Stay here. I won't be a moment." 

He crossed the noisy shop and went through a door marked Employees Only. He found Madame Fauve on her knees on the hearth, her head and shoulders vanished up the chimney. A muffled voice came from inside. "Gotcha, you little--oh hell!" followed by a string of expletives. Albus cleared his throat. The figure bent and twisted, then its upper half appeared, clutching a salamander tail in one hand. 

"Albus Dumbledore!" cried Selena Fauve happily. She was so covered in soot that it was hard to tell where her robes ended and she began. She rose and hold out a blackened hand, withdrew it hastily and dropped the tail in the ashes. She then offered her hand again, but before Albus could take it, she yanked it away again. "Oh, look at me! I look like a chimney-sweep!" she laughed. "Never mind the handshake. How are you? What are you doing here?" 

"I'm well, thanks," smiled Albus. "Listen, Selena--" his face grew serious--"I need to borrow Hagrid for the rest of the day. It's an urgent matter, war-related, and I can't explain it right now. Is it all right?" 

Selena Fauve raised her eyebrows, pursed her lips, and sighed slightly. "If you say so, Albus, of course. I know you wouldn't ask if it weren't important. Just tell him to close up the shop behind him; I've got to catch these bloody salamanders, and there's no one else to stay out front." 

Albus laughed. "In return for the loan of Hagrid, let me give you a hand." He stepped onto the hearth and held his wand up the chimney. "_Dormitans_!" Half a second later, eighty sleeping salamanders thumped softly onto the ashes. Selena threw him an admiring, exasperated glance. "Now why didn't I think of that?" she muttered. 

"Thanks again, Selena," said Albus with a chuckle, then went out front to fetch Hagrid. 

***

The Leaky Cauldron was fortunately empty save for Tom, the middle-aged bartender who never seemed to take a holiday. Albus and Hagrid sat in a dark corner; after serving them their ale, Tom had retreated discreetly back to the bar and was busy polishing the glasses. 

"How's Mrs. Dumbledore?" asked Hagrid. He was very attached to Mireille. During the somber wand-snapping ceremony after he was expelled from Hogwarts, Hagrid had betrayed his emotions only by a slight trembling of his lower lip; afterwards, at the Dumbledores' cottage, he had stumbled into Mireille's arms and cried like a baby. She couldn't quite reach his back, so she had patted him soothingly on the ribs, murmuring, "There, there, dear--it's all right," as he sobbed. After Dumbledore convinced the headmaster to keep Hagrid on as assistant gamekeeper, the giant young man was a frequent visitor to the Dumbledores' cottage in Hogsmeade. Sometimes Mireille mixed up medicines for injured creatures Hagrid found in the Forbidden Forest; more often she applied comfrey salves to the cuts and gashes Hagrid acquired while trying to befriend creatures he was supposed to avoid. Now that Hagrid was in London, apprenticing to Madame Fauve for a year--that had been Albus's idea as well--he missed Mireille terribly. 

"She's very well, Hagrid," said Albus. "The baby should be born in early summer. You'll be back to Hogwarts by then, and I warn you, she's counting on you as a babysitter." 

Hagrid's face broke into a huge grin. "My pleasure, Professor Dumbledore," he said. "Can't wait to see that littl'un. I'll strap him to m' back take him to see the creatures, bet he'll love that...." 

Albus snorted at the thought of Mireille setting Hagrid straight on that matter. He drained his tankard and set it on the table, hard. 

"Listen, Rubeus. I need to tell you what's happening." 

Hagrid's face sobered instantly. "I'm all ears, Professor." 

Albus outlined everything that had happened in the last two days, noting that as he spoke, Hagrid's face drained of color and his dark eyes grew wide. Still, he said nothing until Albus told him that he needed a second for the duel. "That's where you come in, Rubeus. Will you do it?" 

"Me?! Professor--I don't know what to say! Of course I will--I'll do anythin' you need me to do! Er--what _do_ I need to do?" 

"For the duel, not that much," shrugged Albus. "Normally a second is responsible for making sure that the principal he is serving can continue if wounded. But I have a feeling that Grindelwald isn't planning to play by the rules. If he wounds me, he's not going to hesitate to strike while I'm down." 

"Then what--" began Hagrid. 

"Rubeus." Albus spoke slowly and deliberately. "Listen to me. If Grindelwald kills me, get away as fast as you can. Don't linger a moment. Don't even think about revenge. If I die--no, don't cry, Rubeus, listen--if I die in this duel, you must get to Hogwarts as quickly as you can and tell the headmaster what's happened, so he can send the students home. Then you must get to Hogsmeade and get Mireille out of there. Take her to some place that will be safe for her until--until she doesn't need to be there anymore. Any half-blood will be in very grave danger if Grindelwald wins this battle. I can't save all of them, but at least the students will have a fighting chance. And I know that Mireille will be safe with you." He handed Rubeus a handkerchief and looked at the clock over the bar. Two hours left. He felt the sharp stab of fear in his midsection again and swallowed hard. 

"O' course, Professor," choked Hagrid. "I'll keep her safe if--but you'll win, I know you will," he cried. 

"Shhhhh," cautioned Albus, looking towards Tom at the bar. "Thank you for agreeing to this, Rubeus. I knew I could count on you." He smiled at the wild young man across from him, with the shaggy beard and black eyes. 

"But can I ask yeh somethin', Professor? Why me?" asked Hagrid earnestly. "It's a great honor to be your second, and to--to be trusted with the other thing. But wouldn't yeh rather have someone older and--" his voice broke again--"someone who finished school and is a proper wizard and all?" 

"No, I wouldn't," said Albus in a calm voice. "I'm asking _you_, Rubeus, for a few reasons." Albus reached across the table and took Hagrid's hand into his own--awkwardly, since Hagrid's hand was twice as large as his own. "First of all, you have no family that you need to put before the safety of my wife. I wouldn't ask you if your dad were still alive, for instance. Your first duty would be to him if he were still here. But since he is dead, and your mother is--well, your mother is not around either--I am hoping that Mireille and I can consider you part of our family." 

"Ohhh!" sobbed Hagrid, overcome. 

"Second, I know how fond you are of Mireille--she's been like a mother to you, and I have every confidence that you will do whatever it takes to protect her. And if you need to hide somewhere in the wilderness, no one could take better care of her there than you could." He smiled again at wet-eyed teenager. "Lastly, I'm asking you rather than anyone else because you are the bravest and most honest person I know, Rubeus." 

At this, Hagrid broke down completely, and Albus had to come around to his side of the booth and pat him on the back until he stopped crying. 


	5. The Wizard on the Platform

**Peripheral characters were created by me, but all recognizable names and ideas belong to J.K. Rowling. A few historical figures also appear; they obviously belong to themselves. The concept of being "dim," which appears in this chapter, belongs to Stephen King.**

_**Chapter Five: **The Wizard on the Platform_

They left the Leaky Cauldron at two-thirty. After he had paid the check, Albus said to Hagrid, "Rubeus--I don't suppose you still have the pieces of your wand?" 

Hagrid blushed and nodded. He looked furtively around the empty bar, then opened his cloak and pointed to a fuchsia-pink umbrella. "They're in here, sir," he mumbled. 

Albus gave the umbrella a perplexed look. "Isn't that Mireille's?" he said finally. 

"Yes sir, it was," stammered Hagrid. "It was her idea to keep the wand pieces inside it. She said she didn't need an umbrella, that her plants liked a good soaking now an' then, and so did she." 

"I see," said Albus. He shook his head and smiled. "Well, come on then. We've got one more stop in Diagon Alley to make." 

Hagrid looked bewildered when they stopped in front of a shop whose awning read _Zonko's Jokery • London • Paris • Hogsmeade_. "Professor, if yeh've got an errand here, surely it can wait?" he said in an uncertain voice. 

"Trust me, this is a necessary stop. Wait here. I won't be long," replied Albus. He went inside, made a purchase, and was out again quickly. He wanted to clear Aldwych of the Muggles who would be sheltering there. The Germans had ceased sending planes to drop bombs on London; now they were sending V2s, the rocket bombs which in their way were more devastating and frightening than the Blitz of previous years, falling as they did without warning from a clear sky. As darkness descended, more and more people would crowd into the station, Albus knew, seeking shelter and the illusion of safety underground; but for now there shouldn't be too many people to clear out. 

Albus was still dim; though anyone with magical powers could see him as they normally did, Muggles would take no notice of him. Before leaving Diagon Alley, he made Hagrid dim as well. A man his size was surely better unnoticed in the streets of wartime London. They took the Underground to Holborn, Hagrid complaining all the way about the seats that he couldn't quite fit into. 

From Holborn, they walked several blocks over to the small red brick building which housed the Aldwych station. It looked so everyday-London in the waning light of a February afternoon. Albus felt a chill run through his blood, a thrill of terror that even in daylight, just under the surface of something so ordinary and unthreatening, things could be so horribly, monstrously wrong. 

Pushing away the fear that was creeping slowly along the edges of his mind, and swallowing down the bolt of nausea that accompanied it, Albus entered the station, Hagrid trailing behind him. This area, at street level, was deserted. He paused near the closed ticket office with it green tiles and oak woodwork, and fished about in the pockets of his robe. He brought out three small packages wrapped in brown paper and bound with string, and handed one to Hagrid. 

"Here," he said. "Put these up your nose." 

Hagrid looked puzzled again but complied. Opening his package, he found what looked like two small mothballs. After another bemused glance at Albus, he pushed one up each nostril. "Smells a bit like lilac," he said, sniffing. "I can breathe through em, all righ'. But what's it for, Professor?" 

"They're called Breatheasies," replied Albus more cheerfully than he felt. "I picked up some stink bombs in the joke shop to clear out the Muggles for at least an hour or two. Hate to do this to them, but they're better off if they're not here for this." _Because Grindelwald wouldn't mind knocking off a few just for fun and games_, he thought. _A little appetizer before his main course: filet of Dumbledore._

"But couldn't yeh just use a Confundus charm or summat, Professor?" asked Hagrid. 

Albus shook his head. "Too risky with so many people at once. This way is better. It won't cause enough panic to start a stampede that might hurt someone--just enough discomfort to make them want to clear out quickly." 

He put his own Breatheasies up his nose, then opened the other, larger package. Two rows of six stink-bombs lay like small brown quail eggs, nestled in excelsior. He picked one up and dropped it on the floor, where it broke open. Albus dug one Breatheasy halfway out of his nose, replacing it quickly as the odor assailed him. It was a ghastly combination of rotten eggs, spoiled fish, boiled cabbage and troll dung. Hagrid tested the air as well, gagging as he shoved the Breatheasy back up his nose. Albus grinned; for a brief moment, all thoughts of the ordeal ahead were forgotten and he was the mischievous schoolboy he'd been years ago. 

"If that doesn't clear them out, I don't know what would," he snickered. "Come on." 

They entered the lift as it opened before them, Albus palming another stink bomb. The few Muggles who had been on the lift exited towards the ticket-station; just as the door closed and the lift began its descent, they heard cries of "Ugh! What IS that smell?" and the unmistakable sound of someone throwing up. They reached the bottom of the shaft, and Albus let the stink bomb in his hand drop just outside the doors of the lift. 

In the concourse that ran to Platform One, Albus dropped four more bombs; he took two more from the box, then stashed it back in his pocket before entering the platform. When they walked in, people were already beginning to look about for the source of the smell that was drifting in from the concourse. 

About sixty people were on the platform. Some slept in ragged blankets; others sat in groups, talking or eating. Some had makeshift hot plates and had begun making their tea. Albus saw one little girl in a patched skirt and pink sweater embroidered with strawberries; she was playing with a doll which was missing one of its button eyes. 

He dropped the last two stink bombs onto the track. 

The reaction was instantaneous. People yelped and struggled to their feet. There were metallic thunks as teakettles fell to the ground and were kicked several feet as everyone hurried toward the exit. Those who had been sleeping sat up in confusion, then began squirming hastily out of their tangled blankets. The little girl went by, clasped in her mother's arms; she was crying, stretching her arms backward, screaming, "Dolly!" Albus followed her glance and saw with a pang that her rag doll had been left behind on the platform. 

"_Wingardium Leviosa_," he muttered, directing his wand at the doll through a pocket of his cloak. The doll flew through the air, unnoticed by the distracted Muggles, and landed in the little girl's outstretched hands. She blinked in astonishment, then laughed joyfully. Albus saw her clutch it close to her chest just before she disappeared from sight onto the concourse. 

Once the platform was clear of people, Albus and Hagrid picked their way through the debris and walked through the concourse again. Now that nothing remained to distract him, Albus felt the adrenaline begin rushing through him again. He breathed steadily, but was no use. The fear would not be subdued. _This_, thought Albus, _is how Ted must have felt when the beaches were in sight last June. And soon--very soon, in fact--I may be as dead as he is. _

Poor Mireille--how would she stand losing a husband as well as a brother? In some ways, mused Albus, war was harder on the women left behind than on the soldiers who went into battle. At least in battle, you were facing the enemy head-on and doing something--anything--to stave off the fear. The mothers, wives, sisters, sweethearts, could do nothing but wait. In the meantime, they had to go on making dinner, washing dishes, doing the marketing, coping as best they could with the dread which was always there, like someone hanging about and looking over your shoulder while you were trying to work. 

"What now, Professor?" Hagrid's voice broke into Albus's thoughts. 

"We'll go to the abandoned platform," replied Albus. "Grindelwald didn't specify where we should meet him, but if my instincts are right, the tunnel to Gringotts will be somewhere in the disused section. And if it's not," he finished in a grim voice, "he'll find us." 

They turned into a dark side passage, ending up at a metal door, which Albus tapped with his wand, murmuring "_Alohomora_." The heavy door swung closed with a creak behind them. They took the Breatheasies from their nose with relief. 

It was dark on the disused platform, and Albus illuminated the end of his wand. He caught his breath as it revealed a figure, leaning against the shadowed wall, about twenty steps away from them. Albus's heart, already racing, began pounding so hard against his ribs that it hurt. As they approached, the figure unfolded its arms and uncrossed its legs, straightening up in a movement at once lazy and lithe. The other wizard stepped into the light of Albus's wand, and he saw with shock that it wasn't Grindelwald, but a handsome, dark-haired young man who had left Hogwarts only the year before. 

"Tom! What are you doing here?" he said automatically. Behind him, he heard Hagrid's breath expelled in an angry hiss. 

He was so taken aback at seeing Tom Riddle that it took him a second to register why Tom was here. Then it hit him. "So you're Grindelwald's second. Oh, Tom," he said sadly, "I had hoped for better things from you." 

Riddle's eyes narrowed. "If _good_ chooses to ally itself with incompetents and half-wits," he said, looking over Albus's shoulder at Hagrid, "then yes, I prefer to side with evil, if that's how you wish to think of it." He laughed, his mouth twisted in a sneer. 

Albus felt Hagrid startle, then take a step forward. He kept his eyes on Riddle, but held up a hand in warning. "No, Rubeus," he said. "This is not the confrontation we are here for." 

"But, Professor," began Hagrid, "this lyin', sneakin', _framin'_ little--" 

"_No_, Rubeus." Hagrid fell silent. 

His eyes still steadily on Riddle, Albus said, "I can't say that I agree with your choice, Tom; but neither can I say that it surprises me. You always had considerable talent; but it seems a shame that this is how you choose to use it." 

"Bugger my choices, and bugger your self-righteousness," said Riddle coldly. "I have my reasons for doing what I do." 

"Yes, I'm sure you do," replied Albus, one eyebrow raised. "And thus it seems we are at a stalemate." He cocked his head, then said teasingly, "So this is what you've been doing since you left school. No wonder you never sent a reply owl in for the alumnus section of the school newspaper." 

Riddle eyed him sullenly, not answering. 

"Speaking of which," continued Albus, forcing his tone to remain light and casual, "I don't suppose _you_ know why Grindelwald was interested in locating Hogwarts?" 

A peculiarly nasty smile crossed Riddle's lips. "Oh, it wasn't Hogwarts he was looking for," he said. 

"No?" asked Albus. "I was under the impression that he sent Rudolf Hess in a plane to find it." 

"Begging your pardon, Professor, _sir_, but you're misinformed. He sent Hess to find Hogs_meade_." 

Albus's heart skipped a beat as his eyes closed against the vision that filled his head. Suddenly he knew, with a horrible conviction, why Grindelwald had wanted to find Hogsmeade. _Please, please, let Mireille have gotten my owl_, he prayed silently. _Let her have gone to her parents'._

He forced himself to open his eyes and look Riddle in the eye again. "And where might your master be now?" he asked in a low and deadly voice. 

With another languid movement, Riddle brought out his wand and illuminated it, directing its dim light to the far end of the platform. "Right over there." 

Gustavus Grindelwald stood there, a smug and dangerous smile on his lips. Bound to him, helpless and completely restrained, was Mireille Dumbledore. 


	6. A Revelation in the Tunnel

**Peripheral characters were created by me, but all recognizable names and ideas belong to J.K. Rowling. A few historical figures also appear; they obviously belong to themselves.**

_**Chapter Six: **A Revelation in the Tunnel_

Albus's fingers went numb; his wand dropped onto the ground. He raised his hands to his mouth in shock, unable to register what he was seeing. This couldn't be happening. It simply couldn't. The thin, glowing green cords encircled Mireille from her shoulders to her feet, wrapping around her and Grindelwald, binding her to him. Her arms were lashed tightly to her sides by one cord; he could see it cutting into her flesh. Each of her legs was bound to his by another cord, spiralled tightly around her. Although she was of average height, her feet dangled above the ground, and the top of her head just met Grindelwald's chin. The only color in her stark face was a ghastly greenish glow cast by the cords; her dark eyes were wide and panicky. 

Hagrid gasped and stepped closer to Albus, his hand reaching out in panic. Albus clutched his arm, steadying him and holding him back. 

"Albus." Grindelwald's deep voice with the slight accent rang out as he walked toward them. "How very nice to see you again. It's been what? Fifteen years since we last met? I can't tell you what a pleasure it was to meet your charming wife. Right away, I became terribly--_attached_ to her." He laughed, a booming sound that echoed around them. 

"Let her go, Gustavus." Albus's teeth were clenched, his voice hard, low and full of rage. 

"Of course, of course--as soon as I have what I need." Grindelwald's voice was silky and reassuring. He had reached them now, stopping a few steps away, close to Riddle. "I give you my word, Albus, that if you cooperate by getting me the Philosopher's Stone from its vault in Gringotts, I will let her live. In the meantime, perhaps you'd be so good as to hand over your wand?" 

Albus stared. "My wand? Surely you aren't so mad as to think I'm going to give over the only thing I have to protect her." 

"Careful, Albus," warned Grindelwald, a crafty smile stealing over his face. "I've taken the liberty of securing a little protection for myself. Any charm, any spell, any_thing _you try will hit her first." 

"You're disgusting--using a pregnant woman as a shield. What a coward you are, Gustavus." 

The smile disappeared, and Grindelwald held up his wand. The tip glowed red; the air above it writhed with heat. He held it close to the side of Mireille's face, and she screamed. "She's not terribly pretty, but even so, it would be a shame to have her face burned off--don't you think, Albus?" 

Now it was Albus's turn to scream. "_STOP_! Stop it!" He kicked his wand away from his feet; Riddle reached out his hand, and the wand sprang into it. Grindelwald lowered his own. "I'll take your second's wand as well, if you please." 

"He doesn't have one." Albus's hand tightened imperceptibly on Hagrid's arm, warning him to stay quiet. 

"No? And whyever not?" Grindelwald's eyebrows rose, clearly disbelieving. 

Now Riddle laughed again. "He was expelled in his third year at Hogwarts. I was there. He's not even a properly trained wizard. I can't imagine why Dumbledore would choose him as a second. Must be dreadfully hard up for friends." Again, the sneer twisted his handsome mouth. Albus gave him a long and penetrating stare, holding his eyes until Riddle sullenly looked away at Grindelwald, awaiting instruction. 

"Well, then, shall we have a little excursion?" said Grindelwald lightly, as though he were inviting them on a picnic. "There's a tunnel through to Gringotts on the other side here. Riddle, you have the map; lead the way." 

"Yes, my Lord," said Riddle. He took a small piece of parchment from his robe. A series of phosphorescent lines ran across it, gleaming yellow, green, red, blue, purple; circles and squares dotted the lines at intervals, and the station names appeared in black next to them. He searched the map for a moment, then tapped one of the blue squares. The lines shrank and receded, and another schematic appeared as if under a magnifying glass; this one showed long rectangles and large circles. Albus could see a shimmering golden line that ran from the end of one rectangle. Riddle studied it for a moment, then said, "Ten paces into the tunnel, there should be a white brick. That'll be it." He tapped the map with his wand again. The magnified portion shrank as if sucked into the parchment, and the original glowing diagram returned. He rolled it up and tucked it loosely into the front pocket of his robe. 

"This way," he said, and jumping down onto the track, led them to a small door in a brick wall that interrupted the tunnel. Unlocking the door with his wand, he entered the disused running tunnel. Grindelwald motioned for Albus and Hagrid to follow, then walked behind them catlike, somehow unencumbered by the weight of the woman bound to his body. 

Riddle had already proceeded a few steps into the tunnel; there was a sudden thump and a curse as he crashed into something. "_Lumen crescare_," he muttered angrily; just behind him, Albus could see that the light from Riddle's wand showed that the tunnel contained wooden crates, but even with the increased candlepower, it was impossible to see how far back they went. "What is all this muck?" the boy wondered aloud. He looked around and saw a hastily-rigged light bulb which had been suspended near the door. He yanked the chain dangling from it with an impatient jerk; a few coils of wire which had been carelessly tacked up came loose and dangled low, swinging like a hangman's noose. In the glare of light that suddenly flooded the tunnel, they could see that the crates took up a large portion of it, lining both walls. 

Riddle pointed his wand at one of the crates. "_Transmonstratus_." The wooden side of the crate gave a shiver, then became as clear as glass. Inside, Albus saw, looking over Riddle's shoulder, was part of a marble frieze. 

"Ha," said Riddle in a strange voice. "My Lord!" he called, raising his voice. "Come and look at this!" 

Grindelwald shoved past Hagrid and Albus; for an instant Albus could feel Mireille's skin, hot and feverish, as they brushed by. 

"The Elgin marbles," said Grindelwald in surprise. "They must be storing them here to keep them safe from bombing." He laughed. "Excellent, Tom. I think we will be taking these back with us." 

"A very good idea, my Lord. But let us return to the getting the Stone first. We'll need these crates shifted so I can find the entrance to the Gringotts tunnel." 

Grindelwald, still looking at the frieze with glinting eyes, spoke casually to Albus. "Have your second move them out of the way." 

Hagrid looked at Albus, who nodded. Then, seeing Hagrid's hand move toward his cloak, he said, "They shouldn't be any trouble for _you_ to lift, Rubeus," and forced a smile. Hagrid's eyebrows knit for a moment, then his eyes lit with understanding. 

"Right," he said. "Stan' back, everybody." He began lifting and stacking the crates, the muscles in his enormous arms bulging. While they stood waiting for him to clear a path, Albus looked at Mireille at what he hoped was a reassuring smile. He thought that it probably looked more like the grin of a madman, but it was the best he could do. Then she spoke in a low, hoarse voice. 

"Why didn't you tell me, Albus?" she said. 

The pretense of a smile vanished. "Didn't you get my owl?" he asked. 

"I did. But I was in the middle of bottling up a shipment of tinctures, so I want didn't to leave and go to my parents'. How could I know I was in danger?" Her voice was filled with reproach and not a little anger. "You didn't tell me." 

He looked down as tears started in his eyes. Guilt flooded his heart. This was all his fault. God, if anything happened to her, how could he live with his mistake? He faced her again. "I'm sorry, Mireille. I didn't know this would happen." 

Now she tried to smile, but it was a forlorn and hopeless little ghost of a smile. "Just don't lie to me again, Albus." 

"I won't," he choked miserably. "Not to you or to anyone else, either." 

Grindelwald rolled his ice-blue eyes. "Quiet, both of you. You're making me sick." 

Hagrid came back out of the tunnel. "All righ', it's cleared back about ten feet. That should be plenty of room." He spoke to Riddle gruffly; his eyes said that he would cheerfully tear the other second from limb to limb if he could. 

Riddle cast him a disdainful look. "At least the great brute is good for something." He walked in and past the stacked crates, looking for the brick. Albus had to grab Hagrid by the back of his cloak to restrain him from lunging after the other boy. He stepped in front of Hagrid and into the tunnel. The others followed, Hagrid's hot angry breath gusting down the back of Albus's neck. 

The bare bulb near the entrance made a feeble attempt to illuminate the pitch black before retreating into the shadows of the disused tunnel. Its stark glare, which cast high shadows of the crates that were stacked up further ahead of them, heightened the unpleasant tension between light and dark. Above them, stalactites that had grown in the years of disuse dripped dismally onto the ground, forming large puddles of dank, foul-looking water. 

"Here it is," Riddle said, his voice bouncing in hollow echoes from the round walls of the tunnel. He tapped it the white brick once with his wand. For a moment, nothing happened; then the white brick disappeared, and the space it left grew into a small, pointed archway which led into a tunnel carved out of rock. 

"Go on, Albus. Go ahead with Riddle and your--" his eyes glanced upward at Hagrid--"your pet giant," laughed Grindelwald. "I'll be waiting here for you." His hand came up and cupped Mireille under the chin, his thumb briefly caressing her cheek. "With your lovely wife." Her face tightened in revulsion. 

_I'll kill him_, thought Albus. _So help me, I'll kill him, if I have to do it with my bare hands. _

Albus entered the passage, flanked by Riddle and Hagrid. They could feel a slight incline as they walked; after about ten minutes, they came to an iron door. Over it was a sign in the same lettering as the plaques over the entrances outside, in Diagon Alley, but this one said simply, _Please ring for entry. _

Riddle pushed the button and they heard a deep tone resonate on the other side of the door. Almost instantly it was opened by a goblin who regarded them without surprise. "Yes?" he said. 

Albus felt a sharp prod in the back from Riddle's wand. He started, then said, "I'm Albus Dumbledore. I need to get the Philosopher's Stone from vault 713." 

The goblin looked at him for a moment, then nodded. "This way." 

They followed him along a stone corridor that turned sharply and ended at an opening, beyond which lay a line of carts and a track. "Terminus!" announced the goblin happily and irrelevantly. He climbed into a cart at the front of the line, and they piled in after him, Hagrid shifting clumsily, trying to fit and not quite making it. The cart started with a jerk, then rolled forward, gaining speed as it rattled over the tracks. Albus was tense and silent. Riddle was grinning a smug and irritating grin. Hagrid looked as though he were trying hard to keep his lunch down. 

When the cart stopped with another jerk which threatened to undo Hagrid's precarious balance, the goblin unlocked the vault with a stroke of his finger. He fetched a small package wrapped in plain brown paper from inside the vault, and handed it to Albus. The cart reversed gears with a crunch, and they returned the way they had come. 

As they came out through the arch and into the tunnel again, Grindelwald held out his hand expectantly. Albus hesitated, looked at his wife, then put the stone into Grindelwald's hand. 

"Albus, no!" said Mireille sharply. Albus looked away, unable to face her. 

"Thank you, my dear Albus," chuckled Grindelwald, pocketing the stone. "That wasn't so difficult, was it?" 

_No_, thought Albus, _not difficult at all. All I had to do was sacrifice the lives of thousands of other people to save my wife and child. Nothing to it, really. _His face burned with shame. 

"And now," said Grindelwald with artificial mournfulness, "I'm afraid you two lovebirds must bid one another farewell." 

Albus's heart lurched, and he looked wildly at the stony face of Grindelwald. "You gave your word!" he screamed. "You promised you wouldn't hurt her if I gave you the stone!" 

"I have no intention of hurting her," purred Grindelwald. "It's _you_ I'm going to kill." He raised his wand and Mireille shrieked and twisted within her bonds. Hagrid roared and leapt forward, only to be thrown back against the wall of the tunnel by a casual flick of Riddle's wand. He sank to the floor, knocked out. 

"Wait!" yelled Albus. He tried to think, desperate to buy time and come up with a plan. He had to get Hagrid's wand somehow--but then even if he could, he thought with a sinking heart, he could do nothing to Grindelwald without hurting Mireille. Still, he couldn't just lie down and die here without fighting. 

"Gustavus, if you're going to kill me anyway, do me the _honor_ of answering a few questions first." The satiric emphasis was out of his mouth before he could bite it back, but Grindelwald did not seem to take notice. His eyebrows rose in curiosity. 

"As you wish." 

Albus flailed mentally, then his eyes landed on the map, still sticking out of the pocket of Riddle's robe. "The map," he said. He licked his lips--his mouth felt like a desert inside--and took a shot in the dark. "Did that come from Hadrian Malfoy?" 

"Why yes," smiled Grindelwald. He shrugged. "No harm in telling you now, I suppose. Hadrian has been working for me for some time. He found the map in an old book somewhere in Knockturn Alley, and thought that it might be useful. He's known of my little army for quite a while, of course. And I must say, his information from the council meetings has been most helpful." 

"So that's why he bought himself a place on the council," said Albus bitterly. _That bastard_, he thought. _I'll see him in Azkaban for this. _He hoped Gilly would be all right, would not be forced into revealing where she had been and what she had done. If she did, she was as good as dead. 

"Why else?" agreed Grindelwald. "Malfoy's patriotic interest doesn't extend beyond cheering for Britain in the World Quidditch tournaments." 

_What else, what else?_ thought Albus desperately. _Keep him talking. _He forced his voice to be calm and his body to stop trembling. 

"What is it that you hope to gain, Gustavus? Why are you doing this?" He actually did want to know this. He couldn't fathom what the answer might be. 

Grindelwald smiled a strange little smile. "An interesting question. If you wish, I'll show you." 

And then, with a flick of his wand, he showed them. 

The side of a large crate lit up like a screen, and dark forms moved from the ground onto the middle of the crate. The shadows became clearer and at last a ghastly picture formed. 

It was a scene from hell itself. Emaciated men in striped uniforms, their bodies so shrunken from starvation that they seemed to be no more than skin-covered skeletons, stood in rows. The picture panned outward, and forty men became four hundred. Row upon row of prisoners stood silently, dogged, waiting for death and utterly devoid of hope. 

Another flick of the wand. Now a mob of people, ragged and frightened, streamed off the cattle cars of a train. Men, women, old people and children were sorted into two groups by soldiers. Most--including the children and the old people--were then herded into a large building. 

_Flick_. They stood naked and frightened; then began clutching their throats and screaming. They twitched, they shuddered, they writhed, they fell. In a matter of moments, each and every one lay dead on the ground. Mireille gasped. 

_Flick_. The men in the striped uniforms came through and began doing something to the bodies. With mounting horror, Albus saw that they were pulling gold fillings from the teeth of the dead. They then loaded the bodies onto carts and took them outside. 

_Flick_. The dead bodies, naked and flopping helplessly, were being shoved into spaces at the bottoms of vast chimneys. The doors were closed; the picture panned up and out. Columns of thick dark smoke poured from the chimneys, roiling and twisting against a silent sky. 

"Beautiful, isn't it? Oh, yes--I almost forgot," said Grindelwald casually. "A little London postcard I created just for you before you came down here, Albus. I call it 'Souvenirs of Aldwych.'" _Flick_. The scene changed to the street outside. People were pouring out of the station. Out of nowhere, a V2 came whistling down and exploded in their midst. When the smoke cleared, there was a crater in the street, body parts and debris lying in it and around it. Albus caught sight of a shred of sweater embroidered with strawberries. He leaned over and threw up. 

The side of the crate went black. Grindelwald pulled his lips back in a horrifying grin. "Marvelous, isn't it? I've never thought the Muggles could do anything so efficiently and quickly, and on such a huge scale! It's opened my eyes to such possibilities, I tell you." He shrugged. "Naturally it's a little clumsy, but I expect I can update it fairly quickly with a bit of Dark Art work." 

"But why, Gustavus? _Why_?" Albus could barely choke the words out. 

Grindelwald gave him a disbelieving look. "Because they're scum, of course," he said, as though explaining something to a small child. "Every society has its undesirable elements; for the Nazis, it's Jews, Poles, gypsies and homosexuals. For us wizards, it's the half-bloods and Muggle-borns. Like this little piece of trash you married," he snorted. "Though I imagine she'll be entertaining for a while--especially for having been _your_ wife." The hand caressed her cheek again, and this time Mireille turned her head to the side and snapped out, her teeth sinking into his hand hard enough to draw blood. Grindelwald tugged his hand from her grip, looked at the blood almost admiringly, and said, "Yes, indeed. I find resistance most--_stimulating_." 

Rage so fierce boiled up inside Albus that he thought his head would explode clean off his shoulders, but he controlled it somehow, clenching and unclenching his fists by his side. 

Suddenly he had an idea...but it would require perfect timing at the perfect moment. If he could stay alive till that moment came, he and Mireille might have a chance at getting out of this. 

He licked his lips and concentrated on staying alive. "But Hitler is almost defeated, Gustavus. He has a few months left at most. Why assemble your army now, when his is stumbling and about to fall?" 

Grindelwald's bloodied hand waved dismissively. "Hitler's plans are of no real importance. His occupation was useful for the European stage of my program because the people were already cowed and ready to turn on each other to save their own skins. Eastern Europe never had a chance; the French got sold out by their own corrupt government. Now that I've purged the continent, it's time for Hitler to fall, so that I can move on to England. Because England is different. It's fought too long against occupation, listening to that fat Muggle's blathering speeches about fighting on the land, the sea and the air.... And because they've been besieged for so long, they will fall all the more readily for the promise of peace." 

Albus shook his head. "What do you mean?" 

Grindelwald sighed. "For someone who married a Muggle, Albus, you don't seem to understand them very well. My army of wizards will move into post-war England, powerful beyond imagining, yet unseen and unnoticed by the Muggles, who will be too busy rebuilding their lives, and enjoying the relief of the war being over. When their...eccentric...neighbors begin to disappear, they'll tell themselves that nothing's out of the ordinary, because they won't _want_ to notice anything out of the ordinary. They've been living with things being out of the ordinary for the last six years. They're tired of it." 

"But you're after half-bloods and Muggle-borns," objected Albus. "Don't you think their families will notice if they disappear?" 

"And what will they do about it?" sneered Grindelwald. "Go to Scotland Yard? Do you think any Muggle detective is going to find a trace of the Unforgiveables? Fingerprint a wand? Analyze a potion? And if the unfortunate victim's Muggle family is so misguided as to tell the police that that the dearly departed belonged to the wizarding world, led a magical life unknown to the other half of the human race, don't you think they'll be clapped into the nearest insane asylum, diagnosed with some sort of war-induced mental trauma?" 

Albus could not reply. Grindelwald's logic was chillingly irrefutable. He could feel Mireille's eyes on him, begging him to look at her, but he didn't dare. He had to ignore her, concentrate on keeping Grindelwald talking--instead of killing him--for as long as he could, until the right moment arrived. 

"My army," Grindelwald continued, "will have an endless supply of elixir from the Stone. No spell will be able to harm them or stop them. And they'll have the motivation of all the gold they could want in reward. The Mudbloods will be shipped to the camps on the continent, which will be made unplottable; the Muggles will not be able to find them to interfere with my program, even if they wanted to. And believe me, Albus--they won't want to. They'll be all too eager to forget that such a thing could have ever happened, eager for the shame of their complicity to fade into forgotten history. So now, I'm just waiting for Hitler's army to surrender while I make my preparations." 

"And what did he do when he began to lose the war? asked Albus. "When he figured out that you had abandoned and betrayed him?" 

Grindelwald laughed. "Oh, he had a fit. He actually had the nerve to threaten me, Albus, can you believe it?" His tone was good-humored and casual, a sort of just-us-wizards intimacy in it. "He stopped that rather quickly after a Cruciatus, of course. And some of his more stupid decisions have been the results of an Imperius curse...but mostly, I let his own madness destroy him, along with his grandiose plans. So you see, Hitler is eminently expendable; he is only a Muggle, after all." 

This was the moment. Albus seized it and wrung it for all it was worth. "Then how very curious it is that you should choose a half-blood for your assistant and second, Gustavus." 

He felt rather than saw Riddle go rigid with fury; Grindelwald just looked at him with a disbelieving smirk. "Don't be ridiculous," he said. "Tom's blood is as pure as mine." 

"Really, Gustavus?" Albus said lightly. "Didn't you notice how naturally Tom flicked on the electric light in this tunnel? Where do you think he learned that?" 

Grindelwald laughed again, dismissively. "Oh, I know that he grew up in a Muggle orphanage. His parents died when he was an infant, and the Muggles placed him there. I do not hold such a thing against him. Especially when his knowledge of the Muggle world may prove to be extremely useful." 

Albus shook his head. "He lied to you, Gustavus. He was in that orphanage because he is a half-blood...the offspring of a witch mother and a Muggle father. Everyone at Hogwarts knew that. I can't imagine how he managed to fool you--the most powerful wizard on the continent--into believing otherwise." 

Grindelwald turned to Riddle, anger and dismay on his face. "Is this true, Tom?" 

Albus didn't wait to hear Riddle's protesting reply. The instant Grindelwald's eyes left his face, he made his move. He leapt across the tunnel, tore open Hagrid's cloak and seized the pink umbrella. Pointing it at Mireille and Grindelwald, he yelled, "_Fractafibra_!" 

But just as the last syllable left his mouth, Grindelwald snarled out a _Impedimenta_, while Riddle threw a Stunning spell. Albus ducked low and managed to avoid being Stunned, but the force of both spells intersecting caught him in the midsection. The umbrella went flew out of his hands, and he went sprawling hard. He felt his nose connect with the side of a crate and heard the crunch of bone shattering. Grindelwald's counterspell was a split second too late; it only knocked the spell off-course instead of deflecting it completely. Sparks flew from the umbrella as it soared upward, but instead of severing the bonds which held Mireille to Grindelwald, they cut the wire which Riddle had knocked loose from the light when he had turned it on. The bulb went out, plunging them into darkness. 


	7. The Fall of Lord Grindelwald

**Peripheral characters were created by me, but all recognizable names and ideas belong to J.K. Rowling. A few historical figures also appear; they obviously belong to themselves.**

_**Chapter Seven: **The Fall of Lord Grindelwald_

"_Lumos_," said Riddle, and the tip of his wand flared into light. The pink umbrella lay on the floor in a puddle at Mireille's feet, which dangled surreally above it. The map, which had fallen from Riddle's pocket when he leapt forward, had fluttered unnoticed to the ground and lay in another puddle about three feet away, illuminating the water with its phosphorescent glow, turning the tiny ripples into shimmering kaleidoscopes. 

Grindelwald's lips with thin and white with fury. "Enough of this!" he snarled. He raised his wand. "_Avad--_" 

"_NO_!" screamed Mireille. Her face stretched wide with terror. Lightning-fast, she whipped her head forward onto her chest, then threw it back into Grindelwald's chin as hard as she could. He gasped, then lifted his hand to his chin and wiped away the blood that was streaming from his bitten tongue. "Why, you little bitch," he said, slowly and reflectively. "I'm going to enjoy making you pay for that." Then he regarded Albus, who was slowly getting to his knees, holding his broken nose between bloody fingers. 

"Brilliant idea, Albus. How clever of you to conceal that all this time, your second did have a wand after all. And how very unfortunate for you that it didn't work." He prodded Mireille in the ribs with his wand. "Say goodbye to your husband, darling." 

"Goodbye, Albus," she said slowly. He did look at her now, trying to apologize for failing her. He saw her eyes move upward, then downward, slowly and deliberately, then back to him. "I'll always remember our chess games." Her glance went downward again, this time to the little silver queen she wore around her neck. 

"Chess games?" Grindelwald laughed. "_That's_ what she's going to remember? What kind of man _are_ you, Albus?" He guffawed loudly. Riddle chuckled as well, leaning back against a crate, his arms crossed. 

Albus, frowning, didn't hear them. What was she trying to tell him? He looked up and down, following her glance. And then, in the space of an instant, understood the awful, unthinkable message she was sending him. 

Several years ago, he'd been at Mireille's parents' house, discussing with her father the books he'd read on electricity. Her father was an electrician, and he was the one who'd loaned the books to Albus in the first place. Mireille and her mother were out shopping, and the two men had had several glasses of stout by then. Albus drunkenly wondered aloud what would happen if magic and electricity came into contact. "Les' find out!" cried his father-in-law, with the enthusiasm induced by alcohol. 

The two of them stumbled out to the garage, where her dad hooked up a large battery to an instrument that measured voltage. "There you go, m'boy," he'd said to Albus. "Now hit her wiff your magic wand." 

Albus held his wand over the battery and gave it a small wave; the needle on the voltmeter swung wildly to the right, then the glass in the dial had blown out explosively. Sparks from the end of his wand exploded in the air and shot out in all directions. Where they landed on the two men, tiny red embers flared like cigarette ash, burning small holes in their clothing. They looked at each other, stunned. Clearly, when they came into deliberate contact, the forces of magic and electricity magnified each other exponentially--and dangerously. Albus had decided that it was a good thing that wizards didn't use electricity, and that Muggles with electricity didn't use magic. He never mentioned the experiment to anyone except Mireille, who found his clothes stuffed in the bottom of their suitcase, and demanded to know why there were holes all over the nice new Muggle pants she had bought him. 

Now Albus saw with a terrifying clarity that one end of the severed wire lay in the puddle that covered Grindelwald's feet; the other end dangled just a few inches above his shoulder. He remembered his dream of that morning and realized that it had not been a dream, but a premonition. He looked at Mireille again, his eyes wide with dread and refusal. If he did what she wanted, it would kill her too. But her jaw was set in determination. She looked down at silver chesspiece again, then back at him, and he could her voice as clearly as if she were speaking aloud: _Sacrifice the queen and win the game, Albus--remember?_

A small whimper escaped his lips. She cocked her head, threw him a tiny smile, then squared her shoulders in the posture of a soldier at attention. "I'll give your regards to Ted," she told him. 

For a fraction of an instant, Albus hesitated. In the first half of that tiny span of time, he saw again the horrifying images Grindelwald had shown them, and knew that Mireille was right. In the second half of that half-instant, he made his decision, and felt it shatter his heart into an infinite number of pieces. 

Grindelwald, suddenly sensing that something was going on, abruptly stopped laughing and raised his wand. Albus dove headfirst and grabbed the umbrella. Bracing the handle against the ground and pointing the end straight upward, he directed it to pull the dangling wire down to Grindelwald's shoulder. It crossed his mind to wonder whether he would die too, since his shoulders were now in the puddle; he found, without much surprise, that he rather hoped he would. From the corner of his eyes, he saw Riddle spring forward in alarm--but he was too late. 

There was an explosive booming sound and a pyrotechnical blast of sparks. The lightbulb flared into life, then went out again with a pop. The severed wire danced like a live thing on Grindelwald's shoulder, and the wire at his feet jitterbugged in response. Albus was pleased to hear him scream in agony. As the red and golden sparks from the wand fell through the air, showering outward in the tunnel, they fell on the coils around Mireille and Grindelwald; where they touched, the green ropes hissed and turned electric blue. Some sparks landed on nearby crates, setting the corners ablaze. Albus felt a convulsive shudder run the length of his body; it lifted him several inches into the air, then dropped him onto the earth again. He was vaguely conscious of a searing pain in his leg and an aching disappointment to find himself still alive. He felt a muffled thump and turned his head. 

Grindelwald and Mireille had fallen beside him. The coils around them had dissolved into lines of black ash on their charred-looking robes. Both lay facedown, his body covering hers. There was a sickening odor in the air, as though someone had burned a pan full of something caustic. 

Albus got to his feet; the pain in his leg made his knees buckle. Keeping his weight on one leg, he used the other to shove Grindelwald's body off Mireille's. It rolled over, face-up. Grindelwald's eyes stared sightlessly at the ceiling. Black blood ran from his nose and the corner of his mouth. Albus heard a stifled gasp escape Riddle and glanced up at him; his blue eyes were alight with fury. 

"You," he said to Riddle in a deadly monotone. "I'm going to kill you." He started toward him, hands outstretched. He saw fear in Riddle's eyes; then (he could have sworn he saw this, though he thought later he might have imagined it) Riddle's eyes flashed a hideous red. He Disapparated in a flash of green light, and Albus's fingers closed on empty space. He heard something wooden clatter to the floor. It was his wand. He bent, picked it up and looked at it oddly, as though he had never seen such a thing before. He stuck it in his pocket. 

Numb with shock, Albus turned around and looked for a long moment at his motionless wife. Then he turned away again. He couldn't bear to turn her over and see her dead face. He didn't want to see her open, staring eyes, all the laughter in them stilled forever. 

He stepped over her and knelt beside Grindelwald. Thrusting a hand into his robe, he found the Stone and pocketed it. He pried the wand from Grindelwald's clenched fingers, stood up and broke it over his right knee. Then, because he couldn't think of anything else to do, he walked over and shook Hagrid awake. 

"Mmm...wha' happened? Professor?" mumbled Hagrid dazedly. He shook his shaggy head. "Wha' happened?" His eyes were at the level of Albus's knees. "Professor, wha' happened t' yer leg?" 

He looked down and saw without interest that the map Riddle had dropped was now a charred fragment. It was stuck to what remained of the skin above his left knee. It had burned through his robes and seared its glowing imprint of circles and lines onto his leg. He supposed he must have landed on it when he dove for the umbrella, and either the sparks or electrical fire had set it alight. He didn't much care one way or another. He shrugged in answer. 

"Where are th' others? Wha' happened after I got knocked out?" 

Albus could only point at the bodies on the floor. Then he leaned against the wall and put his face in his hands while Hagrid stumbled toward Mireille, bellowing, "Mrs. Dumbledore! Mrs. Dumbledore!" There was no pain like this in the world, he thought. It filled the universe and yet left it hollow and empty at the same time. 

Then, as though from a great distance, he heard Hagrid shout, "Professor! She's alive! _She's still alive!_" 

Albus whirled around, not feeling the pain in his leg and his broken nose. "What?" he gasped. Hagrid had turned Mireille over and was holding her tenderly. Albus crossed the tunnel in two wide paces and knelt next to them. He saw Mireille's eyelids flutter, then close again. 

"Oh my god," breathed Albus. "Oh my god--she _is_ alive! We've got to get her to St. Mungo's right away." He rose. "You hold her, Rubeus; my leg can't take the extra weight. I'll hold your hands and we'll Disapparate." He took a deep breath, then caught it halfway down his throat. He grabbed Hagrid's umbrella from the puddle, then waved it over the crates, whispering, "_Reparo_!" The fires extinguished themselves, and the wood looked as untouched as when they'd first entered the tunnel. "She'd never forgive me if I let that art be destroyed," he said in answer to Hagrid's puzzled look. "The British Museum's her favorite place in London. Ready, then? Let's go." 


	8. The Promise of an Adventure

**Peripheral characters were created by me, but all recognizable names and ideas belong to J.K. Rowling. A few historical figures also appear; they obviously belong to themselves.**

_**Chapter Eight: **The Promise of an Adventure_

There were 218 large white tiles and 36 small black tiles on the floor of the small waiting room of St. Mungo's. Albus knew, because he had counted them over and over after they had whisked Mireille away. Hagrid sat next to him, morose and hiccuping occasionally. Albus had sent him out briefly to dispatch an owl to Fitzherbert; returning, Hagrid had collapsed his huge bulk into a small green chair next to Albus and waited with him, not speaking. 

They had Apparated into the Emergency department of St. Mungo's. The wizarding doctors in their white robes had taken one look at Mireille, white and unconscious, an ominous stain beginning to spread over the lower half of her charred robe, and shooed Albus and Hagrid away. Another doctor, a young intern, asked Albus some questions about what had happened and wrote the answers on a chart. After much nagging on her part, he had finally let her clean the blood from his nose and leg and give him a new robe to wear. She wanted to reset his broken nose, but he refused to let her--nor would he let her repair the wound on his leg. 

"But it will leave a terrible scar!" she protested. 

"Let it," he answered in so dangerous a tone that she dared not push the issue any further. 

Since then he had sat, motionless, praying and counting tiles in the little waiting room, for what seemed all eternity. 

Finally a doctor came in and motioned Albus out into the hallway. Hagrid made as if to rise, but the doctor shook his head, and Hagrid settled back forlornly into the chair. 

Out in the hall, Albus clutched the doctor's white robe. "How is she?" 

"About as well as one could expect, given how much blood loss and trauma's she suffered. We've done everything we can do for her, at least for now." He sounded tired and hoarse; some distant part of Albus's mind wondered how many people he had had to deliver bad news to in the course of his career. "If she makes it through the night, she'll probably be fine." 

Albus's mind clutched the phrase like a lifeline. _She'll be fine, she'll be fine, she's going to be fine_, he thought over and over with immense relief. Then he remembered the dark stain on her robe. "And the baby?" he asked in a whisper. 

The doctor shook his head. "The baby's gone," he said in a flat voice. Albus shut his eyes and grieved. The other man put a hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry," he said. "But you should come in now and see her for a bit." 

Albus nodded. "I'd like that." The doctor led him to a small room. He pushed open the door and held it for Albus, then walked back to the nurses' station. 

***

She lay in an iron-frame bed, looking out the window at the night sky, her face as white as the pillowcase under her dark hair. As Albus approached, she turned her head and gave him a tired smile. He sat down on the bed and took her small hand in his own. 

"My love," he said, lifting her hand to his lips and kissing the callused palm. She gave his hand a brief squeeze, then dropped her limp arm back onto the bed. She turned her head to gaze out of the window again. 

"We lost the baby," she said in a low, choked voice. 

"I know." He reached out and stroked her hair. She continued to gaze out at the stars, but reached up and took his hand. She brushed it with her lips, then lowered it over her heart, covering it with both her hands. 

"This is going to be very hard on my parents, you know." 

"I know, my love. They were looking forward to the baby so much. But we'll make them another. It'll be all right." 

She met his eyes then, and what he saw in their dark depths disturbed him. 

"No, not losing the baby. Losing _me_." 

His eyebrows met in consternation, and he shook his head in confusion. His free hand came up to stroke her cheek. It was cold and waxen. 

"No, no, my love. You're going to be fine. The doctor said so." 

"I'm sure he said no such thing, Albus." Her eyes were stern. "You heard what you wanted to hear instead of what he said." 

What had the doctor said? He couldn't even remember now, other than the phrase _she'll probably be fine_. Something else tried to creep in around the edges of that echo, but he pushed it away hard, refusing it. 

"Mireille, really, you're going to be fine," he smiled. A cold dread was caressing the back of his neck. 

"Albus." Her tone was sober. He closed his eyes and shook his head, smiling idiotically. She repeated his name, and this time he heard irritation. "Albus! Remember what you promised me in the station? No more lies--to me or to yourself. Open your eyes and look at me." 

He opened his eyes--it felt as though ten-pounds weights were attached to the lids--and when he looked at her, he knew that it was true. He didn't understand _why_ the universe would play such an inconceivable joke on him, letting him discover at Aldwych that she was alive, and then gleefully snatching the miracle out of his reach here at the hospital--but it was true. How foolish he had been to ever believe in any goodness or benevolence in the world. There was none; it was all a cruel joke, masterminded by a God who was nothing more than a schoolyard bully. He shut his eyes again. It was too hard to see that deadly pallor on the face he loved so much. 

"Stop feeling sorry for yourself," she said sharply. "You're not the only one who's lost someone he loved. There's a war going on, in case you hadn't noticed. How many Muggles do you know who _haven't_ lost someone to it?" It seemed that even Death itself could not curb that acid tongue of hers. All it could do was turn the volume down to a hoarse whisper. 

Tears fell onto the sheets from beneath his closed lids, and he put a hand to his mouth quickly to stifle a sob. 

"Albus." Her tone was gentle now, patient and loving. "I don't have much time, so please listen." 

His head jerked up and his eyes flew open in alarm. "Should I get the doctors?" 

"No, no." Her face wrinkled in distaste. "They couldn't do anything anyway, and they'd only send you back out into the hall again. And I want _you_ here with me, not a bunch of strangers poking and prodding me with their wands." 

He nodded, accepting it. He cleared his throat. "Does it hurt?" That was his only concern now. 

The corners of her wide mouth pulled up into an almost-smile. "No, it doesn't hurt. It's a bit like floating, like when you're sitting on your broomstick and just sort of bobbing in the wind, you know?" Her voice was dreamy. 

"Do you need a blanket? Are you cold?" 

"No; quite nice and warm, really." 

What else could he do for her? "Do you need a drink of water or anything?" He knew it sounded ridiculous the moment it was out of his mouth. 

"No. What I need is for you to listen to me." She was whispering now, and he had to bend close to her face to hear her. Her eyes were enormous in the whiteness of her face. 

"I'm listening, my love." 

"First, you're not to second-guess yourself about what you did back in the tunnel." 

He couldn't help it; he shook his head. He still felt too guilty for putting her in danger in the first place. 

"No, it's true. It was the only thing you _could_ do, and I'm glad you did it, Albus. I'd never have forgiven you if you hadn't." 

He lifted her hands in his and kissed each one. "You're the one who was brave, my love. Not many people would have sacrificed themselves that way." _Sacrifice the queen and win the game_, he thought again, bitterly. 

She made a side-to-side motion with her head, barely perceptible. "Ted did it." Her shoulders lifted in a dismissive, no-big-deal shrug. "You do what you have to do...anyway, somebody had to get rid of that crazy knob-end." 

Albus laughed despite himself. "True," he said, kissing her hands again. 

"Anyway, you're not to think for a second that you should have done anything else. All right?" She looked at him searchingly. 

"All right," he lied. Then he caught himself. No more of that. "I'll try," he promised. It was the best he could offer. 

She smiled. 

"But I'll never forgive myself for putting you in danger in the first place by lying to you," he said. 

"Yes well, that was bloody stupid, wasn't it?" She smiled her teasing-Albus smile, one corner of her mouth up, the other down, her eyes still mischievous. 

He nodded. There was no arguing with that. "Anything else, my darling?" 

She looked out the window again for a long moment. The rise and fall of her chest was getting slower and shallower, he saw with dismay. Then she spoke again. 

"We come back, you know." She faced him again. "Back there in the tunnel, there was a second when I saw everything." 

He frowned, not understanding. "What do you mean?" 

"I remember you diving for the umbrella, but nothing else till I woke up here. Except for just a tiny flash--I was on the floor of the tunnel, and I looked up and saw a light and I thought there was a train coming towards me. And then I remembered there weren't any tracks in that tunnel." Her voice was barely audible now, and he strained to hear her. 

"Anyway, this light came at me, and somehow I was being pulled into it. I saw Ted, smiling at me. I asked him where our grandma was--I don't know why I asked him that--and he said she'd already come back. He said our baby would be coming back, too, only to different parents." Her dark eyes were wistful, then she went on. "Then he told me that death was just the next great adventure, and that he would see me soon and show me everything. Then he disappeared, and I felt myself being pulled backward. Everything went black after that." 

Albus felt a chill run down his back. He cast about for something to say, anything--but could find nothing at all. 

"So I also wanted to tell you--whenever there's a kid at the school who's been up to mischief, you know, go easy on him. He might have been ours if things had been--" She stopped. "Just promise to go easy on the kids. Be nice to them, always." She squeezed his hand again lightly. 

He nodded. "I promise," he whispered. He thought he might start crying again, so he tried to make a joke. "And if a real trouble-maker and smart-mouth shows up, I should go extra-easy, because that will be you?" 

A ghost of her old grin lit up her ashen face, but she shook her head. "No," she rasped. "I won't be coming back for a long time." 

"And why not?" he asked, smiling. 

"Because--I'll be waiting for you. And when you get there, I'll show you everything." She tightened her grasp on his hand. Unable to speak, he nodded and squeezed her hand in return. She turned her head to the window again and looked out at the stars; Albus did the same. How long they remained that way he did not know, but after a time her hand went slack within his, and she was gone. 


	9. The Legacy of the Garden

**Peripheral characters were created by me, but all recognizable names and ideas belong to J.K. Rowling. A few historical figures also appear; they obviously belong to themselves. **

_**Chapter Nine: **The Legacy of the Garden_

Rubeus Hagrid walked up the small hill that led to the Dumbledores' cottage. He pushed open the gate, crossed the cobblestone path and knocked on the front door. 

"Go away," said a voice from inside. 

"Please, Professor Dumbledore, it's Hagrid. I'm back from London. Please open the door." 

Hagrid was worried about Albus Dumbledore, and with good reason. Upon returning to Hogsmeade after Mireille's death, he had shut himself in the cottage and refused to come out. He had gone into her dispensary and found the bottles she had been labelling when Grindelwald had kidnapped her. He threw them methodically against the wall; they broke open with a crash and the bitter wormwood potion had run down the wall and puddled onto the floor around the broken glass. 

Dippett found a substitute Transfiguration teacher and had the Hogwarts house-elves bring Albus three meals a day. They were brought back largely untouched. The house-elves tried to do a bit of cleaning once a week as well, but Albus growled at them so horribly that they were terrified, and a different one had to be convinced to go each week. 

The story of Grindelwald's plan for domination, and his defeat by Albus Dumbledore, had been front-page news in the Daily Prophet, and was the hot topic wherever wizards were gathered for weeks afterward. In March, the International Confederation of Wizards had voted unanimously to award Albus the Order of Merlin, First Class. A suitably solemn ceremony had been arranged, and an equally raucous celebration was planned for afterwards. Albus didn't show up for either--a source of much embarassment for the Confederation and the Wizard War Council. 

V-E Day had come and gone. While the rest of Hogsmeade was setting off Filibusters Fireworks and dancing jubilantly in the streets, Albus had gone into Mireille's store-rooms and broken all the remaining jars he found there. A month had gone by since then; upon completing his apprenticeship year with Madame Fauve, Hagrid had returned to Hogwarts and was alarmed to hear the tales about his former teacher and the man he admired above all others. 

Now he knocked again. "Professor--please open th' door. If yeh don't, I'm going ter break it down and come it anyway." He knew that Albus might very well send him sailing out of the cottage and across the fields with one well-aimed wave of his wand, but he was prepared to take that chance. 

There was no answer from within. "Right," said Hagrid grimly. He set his shoulder to the door and heaved. The door collapsed inward. Hagrid entered and looked around the gloomy parlor. 

Albus looked terrible. A trim man to begin with, he had lost about thirty pounds, and appeared gaunt and haggard. His skin was pasty and wan; his beard and hair were untrimmed, unwashed and matted. He was staring at the wall. He didn't look up as Hagrid crossed the room. 

Hagrid knelt down in front of him. What could he say? He knew he was no good with words; best to say what he felt and not beat around the bush. 

"Professor Dumbledore, sir--we all loved her, yeh know." 

Albus said nothing. Hagrid stumbled on, trying to find his way. 

"It's true. She was a woman in a million, and it's a damn shame about what happened. But do yeh think she'd want ter see yeh like this? Moping and dragging about, not teaching yer classes? Not eatin'? Not even goin' outside fer a bit o' fresh air?" 

Albus still wouldn't meet his eyes, but his head swung up toward the ceiling as though something fascinating there had suddenly caught his attention. 

"Professor, think of all the lives yeh saved! She died for somethin' good!" cried Hagrid. "An' yer making a mockery of her death by sittin' around wishin' you was dead too." 

For the first time, Albus looked him full in the face. The depth of the bitterness there frightened Hagrid half to death, but he made himself look back. 

"Yes, all those lives saved," said Albus. "At the cost of the two lives that were dearest to me in the world." He put his head into his hands and rubbed his face wearily, then faced Hagrid again. 

"She's gone, Rubeus. Dead and gone and nothing will ever bring her back. And I can't much see the point of going on without her." 

Hagrid suddenly had an idea. "Professor, come outside with me fer jes' a minute. I want ter show yeh summat." 

Albus shook his head, but Hagrid pleaded with him. "Please, Professor, jes' fer a minute. If yeh do it, I'll go away and leave yeh alone, but if yeh don't, I'm goin' ter stand here and nag yeh until yeh either do it or throw me out." 

Hagrid always suspected that it was the promise of being left alone again that made Albus Dumbledore rise from his chair and walk to the door, but it didn't matter, really. 

"All right," he said. "What is it, Rubeus?" 

Hagrid took him by the hand and led him a few paces into the garden. "Look, Professor. She's right here, all around yeh." 

Albus blinked in the bright sunshine of the June afternoon and looked around. Mireille's garden, dormant and frost-covered when he had bolted the door of the cottage in February, was a riot of color and a feast of fragrance. The low hum of bees filled in the air as they hovered about the golden stamens of the pink apothecary's rose spreading along the wooden fence. The heady scent of the tall stalks of valerian mingled with the aromatic peppermint that thrust its stems aggressively along the walk. Creamy-colored foxglove blossoms, with their spotted throats, nodded and swayed gently in the breeze, towering over broad green leaves of comfrey plants. The cheerful yellow flowers of the St. John's wort stood over a row of lavender plants in full bloom, their purple-topped stems pushing up through the silvery foliage. 

Hagrid was right; Mireille _was_ here, all around him. How many countless mint teabags had she prepared to soothe the stomachs of Hogwarts students who'd eaten too many Honeydukes sweets; how many bottles of valerian syrup to help them sleep when they were homesick? How many small children in Hogsmeade had run to her to get a bit of yarrow powder for a skinned knee? How many times had she left at a moment's notice to go help the village midwife, carrying a bag full of cohosh, raspberry leaves and shepherd's purse? He remembered the feel of her crawling into bed in the early morning hours, snuggling against his sleepy warmth, exhausted but elated at having helped bring a new baby into the world. 

Tears started in his eyes, but for the first time since her death, the tears were only bittersweet instead of galling. The goodness of her life, like her garden, was a living thing still, in the minds and hearts of everyone who had known and loved her. 

"I got summat for yeh, Professor," said Hagrid gruffly. He was close to crying himself, standing here in Mireille's garden. He took Albus's hand, opened it, and pressed a small something into it. 

Albus looked down. It was the little silver queen. He looked at it, astonished. He had forgotten all about it. 

"Where did you get this?" he asked. 

"They still had it at St. Mungo's. Yeh left so quick, they didn't have a chance to give it to yeh. They tried ter send it by owl, but all the owls got returned. I was there a coupl'a months ago, and the doctor remembered that I was with yeh, and asked me if I'd give it back to yeh." 

"Oh," said Albus. He looked at it. It was tarnished, and he rubbed it thoughtfully with his thumb. Then, "What were you doing at St. Mungo's? Were you sick?" 

"Nah, not really. What happened was, I went to Gringott's to put the Stone back, like you asked me while we was waitin' at the hospital that day--" he swallowed quickly and went on. "Anyway, while I was in that cart, I saw some fire around a corner and thought it might be a dragon. I'd always wanted ter to see one, so I kinda jumped off the cart and went in that direction." 

"And was it a dragon?" The corners of Albus's mouth lifted ever so slightly. 

"Yeah, it was! A big, gorgeous Antipodean Opaleye! You shoulda seen it, Professor, I never saw anythin' so beautiful in all me life--anyway, the poor thing looked so lonely, jes' sittin' there, stuck in that tunnel with nobody ter talk to it or love it. I went up to give it a pet, and I guess I musta startled it, because it let out a blast o' flame that burned me hair and beard and robe off. It didn't mean any harm," he added hastily. "I could tell it wanted to make friends with me, if only the goblins hadn't found me and made me leave right then. I was still talkin' to it as they was draggin' me away, and I tell yeh, it was right wistful that I was leavin'." He sniffed loudly. "The goblins had to put a sleep spell on it because it was bellowin' and belchin' fire and tryin' its best to get through the tunnel an' follow me home." 

The small smile that had been pulling up the corners of Albus's mouth turned into a broad grin. Suddenly he began to chuckle, and the chuckle turned into a belly laugh. He sat down suddenly on a little bench next to a stand of irises, and laughed helplessly until the tears were streaming down his cheeks. Hagrid looked confused for a moment, then he started laughing too. 

At last, Albus wiped his eyes and turned to look at Hagrid. "Rubeus, I wonder if you would do something for me." 

"Anythin', Professor," said Hagrid. He didn't know quite what he had done, but he had the feeling he had done something right, and he beamed happily. 

"Would you go inside and draw me a bath?" said Albus. "And after I've cleaned up a bit, I wonder if you would care to walk up to the Three Broomsticks with me? I'd like to buy you an ale or six to celebrate your return to Hogwarts." 

"O' course, Professor," replied Hagrid joyfully. "It'd be my pleasure." 

He went into the cottage. Albus sat on the bench, gazing at the garden and breathing in the smell of summer. He heard the water filling the tub inside the cottage. He reached down, pulled a leaf from a peppermint plant and chewed it slowly, waiting for Hagrid to come and tell him that his bath was ready. 


End file.
